


Just Another Nightmare

by melody1987



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-03
Updated: 2015-11-03
Packaged: 2018-02-03 06:38:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 28
Words: 104,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1734779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melody1987/pseuds/melody1987
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"With her hand tucked into the sleeve cuff, she pressed it against her mouth to muffle any sound that might inadvertently escape her quivering lips. Sound wouldn't help. She needed quiet. With all the exertion of a man trying to move a train, she willed her body to calm down. It wasn't real, she told herself. Just another nightmare."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, this story basically came to me one day when I was bored and an idea ran through my mind. I'm not entirely sure where this story will be going, or what will be happening and I don't even know what genre it'll end up being, so please do bear with me. I'd like to say that, although I have put a warning of rape on this story, there's nothing graphically detailed, because it's not a pleasant thing to read and I know there are those who don't like that sort of thing (I'm one of them).  
> Just so everyone knows, some of the backgrounds for a few characters will be pretty AU, so consider this a warning if you're not into that sort of thing, however, I do plan for the story to follow most of the basic plot lines from the three series' and hope you enjoy :)

** Chapter One **

_Shouts._

_Screams._

_Clawing._

_Everything moves in a blur, as images fly past your eyes._

_Sight, sound, touch; every sense is assaulted and your nerves are aflame with terror._

_The flashes of vision are mere milliseconds long, but each one imbeds itself irrevocably in the mind._

_There's a room, bursts of light and an air of dread choking the oxygen from your lungs._

_Someone is trying to get you, trying to grab hold of you and you're fighting with every last inch of strength you possess._

_But they're stronger._

_Much stronger than you._

_They are pinning you down, with very little effort, despite the fact that you are thrashing with all your might._

_There has to be a way out and you desperately want to find it, but you can't afford to be distracted for too long; a fraction of a second will be all it takes for the fight to be over._

_You try to move a limb-an arm, leg, anything-to prize some space between the pair of you, but this person knows what they're doing far too well._

_They've done it before._

_The first time hurt less, because you fought less, unaware of what was really going to happen._

_That isn't the case this time._

_You know exactly what will happen and how awful you are going to feel afterwards._

_And you're terrified._

_Not of the act itself-although that scares the Hell out of you-but of the moment just before it all begins, the moment an indelible image is planted into your brain._

_The image that will haunt your dreams forever._

_And it comes far sooner than you want, although a thousand years would still be too soon to see such a thing._

_You see it._

_You scream._

The drumming rolled through her veins, as her heart hammered wildly against her chest and she bolted upright in the bed. The darkness was overwhelming and it did nothing to remove the visage from her eyes. The nightmare tormenting her sleep had chased her into wakefulness and it wouldn't let her be. She needed light; something for her pupils to focus on that wasn't…that wasn't…

In sheer bloody panic, the young woman scrambled off the bed, crashing to the floor in a tangle of clothing and sheets, before scurrying along the thin carpet towards the wall. Her outstretched hands collided with the cool, solid surface and she clambered to her feet, her left palm gliding upwards until it met something plastic and square. With trembling fingers, she flipped a switch and harsh amber light bathed the room.

Her frantic eyes scanned every nook and cranny of that room, wishing away any hints of shadow that might be lurking nearby. The drumming continued and the rushing of blood roared in her ears, but she couldn't relax until she had taken in every last inch of her surroundings. From the dishevelled bed, to the small pile of clean clothing she had yet to put away, she catalogued each item she saw, until enough time had passed for her to distance herself from that awful nightmare.

Her breath came in sharp gasps and she forced herself to start breathing properly.

_Deep breath in, hold and release._

She repeated the exercise several times and the waterworks didn't start until the fourth repetition. As the tears filled her eyes and began spilling down her cheeks, she suddenly felt as though she was made of lead and, with her back pressed firmly against the wall, slid down to the floor, her backside landing with a quiet thud.

With her hand tucked into the sleeve cuff, she pressed it against her mouth to muffle any sound that might inadvertently escape her quivering lips. Sound wouldn't help. She needed quiet. With all the exertion of a man trying to move a train, she willed her body to calm down. _It wasn't real,_ she told herself. _Just another nightmare._

Repeating the mantra to herself over and over, her heartbeat gradually decreased to a more acceptable rhythm and the tears eventually subsided, until all that was left was a bad memory and silence. Silence was good; silence was calm; silence meant _nothing_ was happening. _Nothing_ was far better than _something_ , because _something_ had the potential to be bad. _Nothing_ meant the absence of everything-the good and the bad-and she would rather miss the good, if experiencing it meant risking the bad.

Apparently, this was progress. She didn't scream anymore. Didn't break anything during her desperate scramble for a light source and no longer resorted to the one means of distraction that had ended up isolating her from the world for months.

But she needed a distraction; always did during times such as these. A trail of linen ran from her feet, over to the dishevelled bed and she found the first prospect for the diversion she so urgently sought. Getting to her feet, she started gathering the bedding into her arms, before returning to the bed in order to tidy it.

She didn't rush, as that would have meant having to find the next task sooner. Glancing briefly at the alarm clock on her bedside table, she saw that it was a little past three thirty in the morning. Any normal person would have climbed back into bed and tried to retrieve the sleep they had lost, but she wasn't normal; people with far better qualifications had told her so.

It wasn't until daylight started to filter through the small join between the curtains that she was finally capable of allowing the briefest trickle of relief to filter through her limbs. Daylight, like silence, was a comfort. Everything was clear in the daylight, leaving no room for interpretation by the imagination.

The curtains were opened, but the electric light remained on until the day had fully dawned. One shower, several articles of clothing and a cup of coffee later, she was fit to be seen in public, but didn't venture out just yet. Instead, she sat in the chair by the window, staring down at the street below, watching as the empty concrete was gradually filled with moving bodies and vehicles.

As was common practice during the early mornings, she passed the time by playing a game of guessing the occupation or purpose of each passer-by. Most were faceless, anonymous people that failed to strike any chord of interest within her whatsoever, even though many habitually walked past her bedsit each morning. However, there was always the odd person that caught her eye and she found herself creating the most elaborate biographies for them.

One such person was striding past at that very moment. The main reason she remembered him was because of the article of clothing he religiously wore every single day. It wasn't a particularly spectacular garment, although its stark darkness did stand out remarkably against the pale blandness of the city, but it was often said that confidence was key to carrying off a look and this man had it in spades. He didn't strike her as particularly cocky, but there was a determination to his walk that brokered no argument. The garment in question was a calf length coat and, coupled with dark chin length curls, he had the air of a dandy about him. All he needed was a top hat and he could have easily been a cast member of any Jane Austen adaptation.

She would have loved to have known who he was and what he did, but she was also reluctant to remove the mystery, afraid he could be just another average person, with an average life. She didn't want average-she had more than enough herself-she wanted something remarkable. Unfortunately, remarkable was hard to come by when you spent your life cooped up indoors.

A hum broke through her reverie and looking at the phone on the table a short stretch away, she saw the screen light up. Retrieving the item, she unlocked the phone in order to silence the alarm. A thrill of nervousness danced around her stomach and she cursed the alarm for reminding her of where she had to be in an hour.

Checking the contents of the mug in her hands, she lamented its emptiness and, with a groan, decided to leave her spot by the window and see if the contents of the fridge or cupboards could tempt her to eat. They couldn't. The next twenty minutes were filled with her slowly gathering the necessary items for her latest foray into the outside world.

Six months. That's how long it had been since she last set foot in St Bartholomew's Hospital. A lot had happened between then and the current day and she didn't even feel like the same person who had entered the building all that time ago. Nausea threatened the prospect of her making a spectacle of herself in the street, but she valiantly fought to maintain her dignity. She was _not_ going to be sick in front of the hospital. That would hardly have been conducive to getting her job back.

It was a very large building, filled with identical corridors and rooms that a stranger would easily get lost in were it not for the large signs hanging from the ceilings. She didn't need such directions. Before her retreat from humanity half a year ago, she had spent four years traversing the cold walkways and, doing so once again made her feel as though she had never left. Without missing a step, the young woman marched towards the offices of Human Resources, her pulse gaining momentum with each step. There was no reason for her to be so anxious, she knew, but it didn't stop her wanting to get the day over and done with.

"Molly?"

A masculine voice seized her attention and she turned to see a very familiar face a few yards down the corridor. After a second of ensuring he hadn't mistaken her identity, the middle aged man advanced towards her, a wide smile spreading across his face.

"I thought I recognised you," he said in the broad Geordie accent which years of living in London had failed to eradicate.

"M-Mike," Molly replied, nervousness causing her words to stutter. "Hi."

"It's been a while, hasn't it?" he remarked, his hands resting in the pockets of his white coat, as beady brown eyes studied her through tortoiseshell rimmed glasses.

Mike Stamford was the sort of man the term "portly" had been created for. He wasn't particularly tall, only a few inches higher than Molly, with a round face and dimples adorning each cheek. There was an aura of calm and kindliness to him, which she had always been drawn to, but beneath the friendly, unassuming exterior laid a man not to be trifled with. He'd been one of a very small number of people who had made an effort to express genuine concern after she left St Bart's, although she had never responded to his calls or texts. She knew she'd have to make it up to him somehow.

"Um, yes, it has," she said, beginning to twiddle her fingers to keep herself calm. Six months without regular human interaction had made her already clumsy social skills even rustier.

"How are you?" he asked, that genuine concern showing in his expression.

"I'm okay," Molly answered, trying her very best to sound genuine. It wasn't a total lie, as she was definitely a lot better than before, but still very far from _okay_. "Feeling much better now."

"Good, good," he said and her attempts seemed to have been successful. "And what brings you here today? Are you planning to come back soon?"

"Well, that all depends on Derek, I supppose." Molly threw a glance over her shoulder at the door a few spaces behind her. "But, if all goes well, I should be back in a matter of weeks."

"That's great news," he said, his smile widening once again. "You've _definitely_ been missed. No offence to the lad covering you, but he doesn't have your skills with paperwork."

Molly managed to crack a smile at his comment and a prickling in the back of her eyes proved how much his enthusiasm meant to her. She hadn't seen Mike Stamford-or anyone else, for that matter-since her "episode" and the reaction to her return was probably her biggest concern. She wasn't sure what sort of gossip had been flying around since her departure and didn't know if her return would be a welcome one, but at least one person seemed glad to have her back.

"Well, I won't keep you," Mike continued. "My pupils await, annoying little buggers," he chuckled. "And I'm sure Derek will have no problems with you coming back. I look forward to seeing you bring some colour back into the place."

Molly couldn't do much more than smile and blush at his words in return and he took a step closer, his hand reaching out to rest on her arm. It took all of Molly's resolve not to flinch and shy away from the touch, but she managed to restrain herself to a small twitch when his palm connected with her bicep.

"Remember," he said, his voice lowering and eyes meeting hers. "If there's anything you need, don't hesitate to ask, alright?"

"Okay," she replied, nodding and, regrettably, counting the seconds until he ceased physical contact. It was nothing personal, but touch wasn't something she particularly craved. She had to stop herself audibly sighing when his hand eventually dropped from her arm.

"I'll see you soon, Molly."

Mike turned to walk away, but after a few paces, she called out to him and he spun to face her again.

"I…um…" she stammered again, unsure of how to word what she wanted to say, but ploughed forward regardless, needing to get her thoughts aired. The twiddling of her fingers increased. "I got the, um, messages that you sent. I know I didn't reply and I'm sorry about that, but I want you to know that I did get them and, y'know, appreciate your concern."

Mike remained silent, watching her for a short while, an unreadable expression on his face. "Don't mention it," he eventually replied. "See you later."

With a last smile and wave goodbye, he continued walking away down the corridor and Molly watched his retreat, until he passed through the double doors that would conceal him from sight. The prickling behind her eyes increased, until a wave of moisture soaked them and relieved tears threatened to fall from her lashes. She held them back and wiped her eyes dry, before taking a couple of deep breaths.

Once suitably composed, Molly turned and continued towards HR, scared shitless and in no way ready to discover her fate.

Almost an hour later, Molly Hooper exited St Bartholomew's with a mixture of elation and trepidation. In two Mondays' time, she was to resume her position as a pathologist at the hospital. Derek had read through her latest psychiatric reports, as well as had a long, detailed discussion with her, regarding the possibility of her returning to work. It had taken quite a lot out of her, but she reckoned it could have been the exhaustion following prolonged exposure to the adrenaline that had been coursing through her body for the past few hours. Being up at three am was also a strong contributing factor.

After a few breaths of fresh air, or as fresh as London air could get, Molly felt her pocket vibrate and fished out her phone, seeing the screen light up. Unlocking the device, she read through the text message she had just received.

**Supposed to be nice weather today. Fancy the park instead of the office?**

There was no name at the end of the message, but it wasn't necessary. She knew the identity of the sender very well, as they had been her one regular human contact for the past six months. Considering the proposal, she decided to check the weather for herself, before answering. Apparently the sender of the text was correct; it was going to be a beautiful day. Another moment of contemplation and she replied.

**Sure. Where are we meeting?**

It was a couple of minutes before the reply came through.

**By the Pavilion Café. We can either stay there or head somewhere else.**

She agreed, before returning the phone to her pocket and heading for Victoria Park.


	2. 2

**Chapter Two **

"Didn't fancy sitting inside, then?"

Molly, sitting on a wooden bench, looked up at the man stood before her.

"Not really," she replied, holding out a cardboard cup of hot coffee as a way of greeting.

"Ah, cheers," he said with a smile, quickly checking the empty portion of the bench, before sitting himself beside her. He was a little awkward with his movements, what with the walking stick and all, but it tended not to hamper his mobility too much.

After relinquishing her hold on the coffee cup to him, Molly clutched her own receptacle with both hands, relishing its warmth. Although the weather app had predicted a beautiful day, it hadn't mentioned how chilly it would be, especially not in the shade. John Watson seemed not to share the opinion, though, as all he wore on his torso was a thin jacket over a checked shirt. She tried not to be too jealous of him; after all, it wasn't his fault that she felt the cold so easily. Looking around at passersby, she discovered that she was one of only a very few people wearing jumpers beneath their jackets or coats.

For several minutes, they sat together in easy silence, as each blew and sipped their beverages, before something solid dropped into Molly's lap. She almost spilled her drink in surprise and plucked the object from her legs, holding it up for inspection. It was a Nutri-Grain bar and Molly's eyes looked up to meet John's gaze.

"I'm assuming you haven't had breakfast," he remarked with a mildly reprimanding expression.

Molly simply rolled her eyes in reply, before begrudgingly setting the half empty cup aside. Although she didn't feel particularly hungry, she knew he wouldn't let her leave his sight until the entire bar had been eaten, so she complied, chewing her way through it as quickly as possible in order to get the ordeal over and done with. It wasn't that she didn't eat, she just tended not to do so until the afternoon or even evening. She could never force down a meal first thing; the dreams always affected her too much to hold anything down for very long.

John remained quiet as she ate, his patience in no way forced or making her feel uncomfortable. He was always good with that, being one of the few people who could actually listen to someone without making them feel like too much of an imposition. If he'd gone down the route of treating mental illness, rather than physical, she reckoned he could have been an exceptional psychiatrist. Unfortunately, even if he _had_ become a head doctor, the man would have only fit the saying that therapists were as crazy as their patients, because John had a few mental issues of his own to sort out.

It was how he and Molly had first met, just less than six months ago. As part of her rehabilitation, she was asked to participate in a session of group therapy. It was an idea her therapist, Ella Thompson had wanted to try and she'd already recruited a few other patients. Molly was unwilling and sceptical at first, but eventually got talked into it and started attending. John hadn't been at the first session and, after five minutes, Molly had felt like bolting from the room, but she made herself stay the entire hour, as each of the five patients sat in a circle and introduced themselves. In the end, it hadn't been all that bad and Molly felt a little more enthusiastic about attending the next session.

John came the second time and she saw straight away that his reluctance to participate far exceeded hers. Limping heavily, the butt of his walking stick clicking loudly against the linoleum floor as he entered the room, his face was set in a stony expression and Molly had initially been wary of approaching him. With the air of determination he exuded, she wondered how Thompson had managed to even talk him into attending.

Eventually, he introduced himself to Molly and she was amazed at the transformation he went through when he smiled. He looked like a completely different man! No longer threatening or surly, he seemed to shine light into the cold room and she was surprised by his amiability.

The sessions continued each week for the next month and, with every meeting, she got to know a little more about Doctor John Watson. She discovered that he was a fully qualified physician, who'd served in the army until recently, when a gunshot wound forced him to return to England. Molly had initially assumed the injury was the cause for his limp, until further study made her suspect otherwise. She kept her observations as subtle as possible and never questioned him about it, as they still hadn't got to know each other very well by that point.

During the second month, signs that sessions would soon come to an end began to show, as a couple of the patients started arriving late or failed to even show up. If she was honest, Molly's only motivation for going was to see John, as she had come to enjoy his company and, when Thompson eventually called an end to the group therapy, it saddened Molly to think she probably wouldn't see him again. Luckily, one of the other patients, Mark, had contacted the other members to see if any were interested in still meeting up weekly to chat. Although she'd never really spoken to him much, Molly had no issue with the man, so agreed and was both surprised and delighted when she discovered John had agreed too.

For the next few months, the trio would meet on a regular basis and it had quickly left the realms of therapy, to become a simple exercise in socialising-something Molly hadn't even realised she missed until then. They'd meet for lunch or coffee and discuss all manner of things and it was during those moments that, for the first time in a _very_ long time, Molly felt something akin to human again.

Due to relocation to Manchester with his family, Mark eventually left the group, leaving just Molly and John, but it didn't seem to bother either of them. They still found plenty to talk about, especially when they discovered they both knew Mike Stamford and had trained at St Bart's. It became a common occurrence for them to meet up after therapy sessions, often to compare notes and laugh at one another's insanity, each knowing they could do so without the other's judgement.

Today was one of those days.

"She wants me to start a blog," he said, his voice carrying all the derision his face projected. He had a very expressive face, one that revealed pretty much every emotion the man was going through. "Thinks it'll help me better adjust to "civilian life"."

"She said the same to me," Molly chuckled, amused by his semi impression of their mutual therapist. "She reckoned it'd be a good emotional outlet for me."

"I wonder if she has one," he mused. "Since she's apparently so fond of them. I might ask her next time."

"Are you going to do it?" Molly asked, gulping down the last of her drink.

John sighed. "Dunno. Suppose I'd better try it, at least. The only problem-and I told her this-is that you need something to write a blog about and nothing ever happens to me."

"You couldn't write about your time in the army?" she suggested, but his look told her that wasn't an option he favoured.

"I'd rather not become the latest "victim" to burden the internet," he replied.

Molly could understand that. The reasons behind her therapy weren't things she particularly wanted to write about, either. Seeing the downward spiral the conversation was starting to send his mood, she decided to switch topic.

"How's the flat hunt going?"

Her tactic had worked, as the corners of his mouth twitched in a small grin. "Funny you should ask," he said. "Because I'm due to look at one tomorrow."

"Oh, really? You managed to find one you can afford, then?"

"Well, it's a flat share, so I'll be living with someone else," he explained. "Mike recommended the bloke to me, but he seems a bit… _odd_." An expression crossed his features that Molly couldn't quite decipher, but it passed as quickly as it had arrived, to be replaced with a proper smile. "Still, beggars can't be choosers, eh?"

"I'm sure he wouldn't have set you up with a total nutcase," she reassured. "You'll have to let me know how it goes. Where's the flat?"

"Baker Street. To be honest, even with a flat share, I don't know if I'll be able to afford it."

"Well, good luck," Molly offered, to which his smile widened.

"What about you?" he queried.

"Well, today I had my interview at the hospital."

"Yes, you did," he commented, his torso shifting a little to face her more. "How did it go?"

"I return to work in a fortnight."

"Congratulations," he quietly cheered. "And you're ready for it?"

"Yeah," Molly answered, after a moment of consideration. "I mean, I _think_ so. I can't spend the rest of my life rotting away in a crummy bedsit. I need something to occupy my time and, hopefully, it'll provide a good distraction from…other things."

"Still not sleeping well, then?"

"It's getting better," she said, trying not to think of the nightmare that had forced her out of bed at stupid o' clock. "But work will give me something to focus on, something _worthwhile_ to do each day."

It was John's turn to nod in understanding. He'd told her once about the troubles he sometimes had sleeping and it was another notch on the chart of their similarities, which made Molly feel far more at ease talking with him, than pretty much anyone else-even her therapist-at times.

"Are you job hunting yet?" she asked.

"If this flat share goes through," he began. "I'll need to settle there first, but, after that, definitely."

"What sort of thing are you thinking?"

"Probably locum work or something. Maybe even a permanent position as a GP. Who knows?" he threw yet another grin her way. "We'll have to see what life throws at us."

Molly smiled back and picked up her empty coffee cup to hold aloft between them. John mirrored her actions.

"To whatever life throws at us," she declared.

"And blogs," John added.

They both laughed, as the cups collided with a soft tap.

**0**

Molly felt an unusual sense of purpose in the days that followed. Now that she had her job back, she was no longer wandering aimlessly through each day, without a clue of what would come next. Pretty soon, she would have a _reason_ to get up each day and there had been no negative responses to her news so far. She wondered how much might have changed during her absence and the worry that she might have forgotten what to do lingered at the back of her mind, although she proceeded to spend numerous hours each day pouring through all her old books that focused on her line of work.

A week before her start date, Molly decided to assess the contents of her wardrobe and found it severely lacking. It was the first time she'd done it in almost a year and the thing she noticed immediately was that all of her old favourites-the brightly coloured knitwear and heavily decorated blouses-had all been pushed to the back, making way for sombre blues, greys and black. The cut of the fabrics she'd worn more recently had taken a drastic turn for the unflattering, too, with shapeless jumpers, tops and trousers covering the body of someone who clearly felt they had no reason to make an effort anymore.

 _Well,_ she thought to herself. _We won't be able to get away with that anymore, will we?_ The sudden fatigue that hit her the moment she thought about making an effort with her appearance was palpable and she was taken back to a time when the highlight of Molly Hooper's day had been deciding what to wear or, especially, how to style her long hair. That had been a particularly pleasing hobby for her, as she'd always considered her hair to be her best feature. Many a woman had professed their envy at how thick and healthy it always appeared to be. Currently, said hair was scraped back in a lazy ponytail and, whilst as healthy as it had ever been, it lacked the life it once had-much like the woman herself.

By that point, Molly decided to walk away from the wardrobe and do a little house (or bedsit) work, before her reminiscence depressed her any further.

With each passing day, the small ball of nerves that had developed in her stomach after the meeting at St Bart's steadily grew. By the time the second Sunday had arrived, her pulse was racing continuously and she found it impossible to remain still. Her home had never looked so spotless. It didn't help that sleep had been particularly evasive the past few nights and Molly didn't cope well with insomnia. In the end, she was forced to buy some sleeping tablets from the local pharmacy, just to provide her body with some much needed rest. It wouldn't do for her to have another breakdown on her first day back.

When Monday morning arrived, Molly spent a lot of it in the bathroom. The nerves had reached their peak and saw fit to purge themselves from her body. When she eventually felt able to go half an hour without vomiting, she began readying herself for work. At first, she had considered unearthing some of the more colourful items of clothing she'd abandoned, but, as the cherry patterned blouse was removed from its hanger, she knew it'd feel completely wrong. It'd be too false, like forcing cheer upon herself. It would've been the same as stuffing two rolls of toilet paper down her bra to give the illusion of cleavage she didn't possess. Nobody would fall for it.

In the end, she chose a smarter version of her current everyday self, but did manage to coerce herself into doing something presentable with her hair. Using tools that had been stored away for far too long, Molly eventually fashioned her hair into a large bun at the back of her head. It was nothing too outlandish, but gave her the feeling of making an effort for a change.

The sleepless nights had predictably done absolutely no favours for her face and she was resigned to putting a thin layer of makeup on to try and hide the dark circles around her eyes. There would be enough gossip about her flying around the office and she didn't want to fuel the rumours by turning up looking like the product of a zombie apocalypse.

By eight o' clock, Molly Hooper was ready for work.

And terrified.

**0**

Joseph Cornwell was assigned to help facilitate Molly's transition back into work and she was doing all she could to politely ignore his condescension. It was surprisingly easy. She'd never really liked him, but, for the sake of an easy life, remained civil. In fact, she'd hidden her dislike so well that she was sure he was absolutely oblivious to it and she didn't know if that was necessarily a good or bad thing.

"Well, Molly," Joseph said, with a patronising grin that a bolder woman would have wanted to slap right off his face. "I don't think you'll need me with you for much longer, will you?"

She simply smiled in reply, feeling like a toddler being praised for learning to use a potty.

"I should warn you, though," he continued, his voice suddenly turning serious. "We've acquired a visitor in the last few months."

"Oh?" Molly tried to sound interested, she really did, but it was hard to do when she'd spent the majority of the day tuning out whenever he spoke.

"Yeah, I think he's something to do with the police. Doesn't have a badge, though."

She couldn't quite understand his warning. They worked in a morgue; of course police officers would visit.

"The only reason I'm warning you is because he's a bit…well…" He spent a moment searching for the correct term. "The word arsehole has been thrown around."

Molly raised an eyebrow. "If he's that bad, why don't you report him or something?"

"Falls on deaf ears," Joseph complained. "He's clearly got connections somewhere."

Molly considered the information briefly, as she continued working and found herself wondering who the man he referred to could be. Anyone who annoyed Joseph was on to a good start in her estimations and she chose to reserve judgement until she met the man herself.

That meeting happened far sooner than she could have predicted.

For most of the first day, she and Joseph had worked together on whatever bodies needed assessing, but, by the afternoon, she was allowed an hour or two of respite, by leaving him in order to catalogue a series of samples that had been left in the lab. Just as she was finishing up the paperwork, the double doors swung open and authoritative footfalls signalled a determined entrance. Molly assumed it was Joseph and looked up, only to be left gobsmacked by what she saw.

It was him! The dandy! There, clad in dark coat and chin length curls, was the man she had watched walk by her window almost every day for the past few months. Mouth agape, her gaze followed him as he unwound the blue scarf from around his neck, having yet to even acknowledge her presence. He was there, in _her_ hospital, entering _her_ lab. _Is he a new member of staff?_ The question remained in her brain, as she was still too busy gawping to direct the question his way.

Still refusing to offer an acknowledgement, the stranger started firing requests in a voice which suggested he belonged there and that everyone else's presence was merely to facilitate his needs.

"Afternoon," he said, shrugging the coat off his shoulders and hanging it on the coat stand near the door. His back was to Molly, so he was unable to see the blatant astonishment on her face. "I'll need a microscope, some Petri dishes, a blow torch, two test tubes and silence, if you don't mind. Oh, and the results from yesterday's soil samples would be marvellous. Who are you?"

All of this was said in one breath and at a speed that Molly's brain failed to match. She still hadn't recovered from her shock and was left simply scrambling mentally for some means of reply. Her lack of response failed to encourage any real reaction from him, as he moved on to the next question.

"Where is Cornwell?" he demanded, almost looking put out that her colleague wasn't present.

Still, Molly was unable to speak, save for a couple of stammered half-words, which seemed to annoy the man now stood before her. He was tall in a looming sort of way, with pale skin that provided a sharp contrast to the dark hair crowning his head. His eyes were a piercing shade of teal that seemed to intensely scrutinise everything their gaze came into contact with, making her feel a bit like a particle being viewed through a microscopic lens.

"For the sake of London, I do hope your skills at pathology are better than your attempts at speech."

That remark managed to snap some form of sense back into Molly and she attempted to reply in a small, uncertain voice, but his focus had already shifted.

"I need those items immediately," he stated, turning his back to her and settling at the counter, where a microscope was already set up.

If this was the man Joseph had spoken of, she was starting to see why her colleague disliked him, but Molly was still too surprised and, frankly, _fascinated_ to be annoyed by his rudeness. She gathered the items he had asked for, placing them carefully beside him on the counter. He had a couple of small clear plastic bags in his left hand and she wondered what he might have inside that required such investigation.

She was about to walk away and continue her work in the silence he desired, but her curiosity was getting the better of her. In the distant part of her mind was that fear she'd always had of the people she saw in the street turning out to be boring, but there was something about The Dandy (that was going to be his title until she learnt his actual name) that warranted further investigation. Steeling her resolve, she finally spoke.

"Um," she began, in probably the least intelligent way possible. "Joseph mentioned that a…well, I guess a detective or someone to do with the police-"

"I did ask for silence," he interjected, without even looking up. "And since you've complied with my other requests so efficiently, as well as demonstrated your obvious lack of conversational skill, I would appreciate it if you kindly stopped speaking."

For the first time that Molly could ever remember, she found herself actually agreeing with Joseph on something; The Dandy really was an arsehole. As usual, she opted for an easy life and simply let him be, going back to the samples she had almost finished with. Unfortunately, no matter how much of a knob he presented himself as, Molly couldn't keep her eyes from returning to him. She wondered if he was consciously aware of how rude he was being or if he simply lacked any knowledge of social etiquette. In a way, although she bore the brunt of his discourtesy, it wasn't necessarily a personal thing, so she could afford to see some humour in it. She'd never met anyone so relaxed with speaking their mind before. It was tempting to call Joseph in, simply to see a moment of interaction between him and The Dandy, but she refrained from doing so. No point in antagonising the bizarre man and it would make a nice change not having to listen to Joseph's endless condescension.

She settled herself to continue the work The Dandy's entrance had interrupted, but, just as she had picked up her biro, another request was thrown her way.

"Where are those soil sample results?"

Well, at least she wasn't going to get bored.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to know what people think of Sherlock and John's introductions, as I want them to remain as in-character as possible. I hope you enjoyed the chapter and I'll have the next update posted soon :)


	3. 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was wondering: I've seen some stories on here that include artwork and pictures. Does anyone know anyone out there interested in offering any artwork to go with this story? I'd love it if there is!

**Chapter three **

Two Mondays ago, Molly Hooper was preparing herself for a return to civilisation and (hopefully) sanity. By the start of her third week back at work, she found that only one of those two was being achieved, albeit barely. Settling back into the Monday to Friday, nine to five routine (which could easily become six, seven or eight) wasn't as hard as she'd expected and most of her fears of returning to St. Bart's had been largely unrealised; either people decided not to gossip within her range of hearing, or her return was of little concern to anyone else. Sadly, the sanity she craved remained annoyingly out of reach.

There were several things keeping it at bay. Firstly, work had done very little to improve her sleeping habits. At most, she'd gained an hour each night if she was lucky and the need for distraction was the sole motivation for her remaining at the hospital for so long after most shifts. Secondly, work schedules had impacted on her barely existent social life. With her rota and whatever-it-was John had started doing, their weekly get-togethers were postponed until both found a moment of free time that coincided. They still contacted through text messages, each asking how the other was doing, but it didn't feel the same to her. He was one of the only people who didn't reduce her to a socially awkward mess and the absence of decent face-to-face conversation affected her far more than she'd ever expected.

Unfortunately, the void in her social life had in no way whatsoever been filled by the man who so brazenly waltzed into her lab during her first day back. From the moment she met Sherlock Holmes, Molly had a burning desire to discover all she could about the Consulting Detective-a title he'd somewhat proudly declared to her that same day, when she'd dared to enquire, although the pride was buried beneath a veneer of practised nonchalance. That veneer tended to coat much of his personality and she had added _aloof_ to the (often insulting) adjectives others used to describe him.

In all honesty, despite Sherlock's often abrasive personality, Molly couldn't find it within herself to dislike him. For a start, they shared a mutual love of silence and, whenever he was around, she was sure to be blessed with at least a few hours of peace to carry out her work. Another plus was that his presence often kept Joseph's at bay. The mysterious man also proved to be one of the greatest sources of distraction she had found in recent years. Whatever fears she'd had about him being boring were unnecessary, as he proved to be anything but, especially when she'd been offered a glimpse into the workings of his mind. He and Lestrade (one of the friendlier detectives at Scotland Yard) had visited the morgue a week ago, investigating an apparently baffling double suicide and, in less than a minute of examining the corpses Molly pulled out for them, Sherlock had managed to list all the reasons why it was actually a murder inquiry they dealt with. The words fell from his lips at breakneck speed and she couldn't even remember half of what he'd said, but it had all been proven correct and she wanted to know how in the Hell he managed to do it.

He was cloaked in mystery and she would have loved nothing more than to peer within the folds. The few attempts she'd made at initiating conversation had mostly failed, with him either interrupting to change the subject or blanking her completely. He was a conundrum she desperately wished to solve, but it was proving a difficult task and desperation was forcing her to take more extreme measures.

Currently, the conundrum was vigorously beating a corpse to within an inch of it's…hmm; _life_ probably wasn't the best word to use. Molly watched through a window, as Sherlock repeatedly struck the body with a riding crop, trying to remember if she ever received a similar request from any other detective that had visited the morgue over the years. She hadn't, which only served to increase her curiosity about the man. She wondered what the purpose of such a task was, but hadn't had chance to ask. Conversing was not exactly a hobby of his. She could have started to take it personally, had she not witnessed him treat her colleagues the same way. In fact, he was far nicer to her than some other people she worked with.

The snap of the crop hitting flesh echoed throughout the chamber, as Molly entered, rubbing her lips with her trusty ChapStick. She really needed to stop biting them. The purpose for her interruption was to try and actually gain his attention on her own terms for once. Subtlety was either over his head or he simply didn't respond to it and she intended to forgo the hesitant efforts at futile conversation. His work appeared to engross him far too much, so she hoped he might be more responsive away from it. With a plan set in her mind, Molly forced what little confidence she could muster into her stride. Whether by coincidence or due to the interruption, Sherlock's assault had ceased and he was taking a moment to recover his breath; he'd really been going at it and she could see a light sheen of sweat on his face. Stopping at the foot of the table, she decided to lead into her proposal with a bit of light humour.

"Bad day, was it?"

"I need to know what bruises form in the next twenty minutes," he responded, completely ignoring her comment, as per usual. "A man's alibi depends on it. Text me."

"Okay," she replied, noting that humour clearly wasn't the way to go where Sherlock was concerned. _Here goes nothing_ , she thought, as she got ready to voice her suggestion. "Listen," she began, her fingers resorting to twiddling as they always did when she was nervous. She wanted to ask him in a way that didn't necessarily sound like she was asking him on a date. She had absolutely _no_ interest in gaining a boyfriend. "I was wondering. Maybe later, when you're finished-"

"Are you wearing lipstick? You weren't wearing lipstick before."

Molly was completely taken aback by the question. He barely ever acknowledged her presence unless he wanted something, so how would he possibly notice if she put lipstick on? "Um…no…it's just, um, my ChapStick." She fished the item out of her lab coat pocket and held it up as proof.

His eyes held her for a moment longer, narrowing slightly, before his attention fell back to the small notepad and pen in his hands. "Sorry. You were saying?"

His query had thrown her somewhat off track and she had to gather her thoughts, before continuing her proposal. The words rushed out of her mouth, desperate to be heard before he could cut her off again. "I was wondering if you'd like to have coffee-"

"Black, two sugars please. I'll be upstairs." The ghost of a smile graced his lips, before he turned abruptly and left the room.

"Okay."

Molly's response echoed around the chamber, as the door hinges whistled shut and she was left with nothing but a dead body and failure for company. Her fingers stopped twiddling and squeezed together tightly, as though trying to halt the flow of frustration emanating from her body. Molly was never very good at dealing with emotion and she could feel hot tears prickle the backs of her eyeballs. He didn't let her finish. Why wouldn't he _ever_ let her finish? It made her long for an afternoon with John all the more, if only to have a conversation with someone who actually _listened_. Why was it so hard to get people to listen?

A terrible thought crossed her mind then. What if he'd assumed she _was_ asking him out and decided to cut her off for fear of having to reject her? He had questioned her makeup, after all and the brief look he gave her afterwards definitely held a hint of suspicion. She mentally retraced the brief interaction, looking for any signs that she had unintentionally given off the wrong signals, but was damned if she could identify them. Flirtation was _not_ her area of expertise and she was reminded of why she had chosen to spend the majority of her time surrounded by the dead, rather than the living.

With a huff of resignation and infuriation, Molly, remembering Sherlock's request, checked the time and decided to make the beverage she had offered. As she made her way to the kitchen area where the kettle resided, she took several deep, calming breaths and a sliver of silver began to line the cloud currently hanging over her. It wasn't quite what she had hoped for, but at least Sherlock was still offering a distraction in some way. Her evening was going to be spent researching mental disorders, in the hopes of finding one that might match Sherlock's personality, because she was pretty sure his behaviour wasn't typical. At least, she hoped it wasn't, because, if it was, it might mean that, should John ever decide to cease contact completely, she'd spend the rest of her life as a recluse.

**0**

When Sherlock said he'd be upstairs, Molly knew that he was referring to the laboratory situated on the floor above the morgue. It was always his first stop after visiting the morgue. As she neared the double doors leading to the room, she could already hear his deep, dulcet tones and she wondered which poor soul he might have been berating at that time. He was partway through a sentence when she pushed the door open with her free hand.

"…sense for it to be the brother." Sherlock looked up. "Ah, Molly, coffee. Thank you."

Having only entered the room in the last few seconds, Molly hadn't had time to properly survey her surroundings. However, upon hearing her name spoken aloud, her gaze flew in his direction, just as the head of his companion spun in hers.

"Molly?"

Her step faltered and eyes widened in surprise. "John? Hi!" The shock was instantly replaced by a wide smile and she continued walking towards them. Handing the drink to Sherlock, she stopped beside her friend. "What brings you here?"

"Not a lot," John replied, leaning against the desk with folded arms. "I did wonder if I'd end up seeing you today, though. I've just spoken to Mike."

"Oh, really?" she said and couldn't help but feel the enquiring gaze of the tall man, situated a foot away, fall on each of them. Was he surprised at her sudden fluency of speech? It was remarkable what a friendly face could do for someone's confidence. Her eyes flitted around the lab quickly, noting the absence of hers and John's mutual friend. That meant that it _was_ John Sherlock had been talking to. The notion baffled her a little, because, if she was about to discover yet another mutual acquaintance with the former army doctor, the world was definitely becoming far too small. "I haven't had chance to catch up with him much since coming back."

"Well, I think he was hinting at a booze up at some point," John remarked.

Molly winced well humouredly. "Oh dear." A drunk Mike Stamford was certainly good comedic value, but a handful to deal with.

John chuckled. "Yeah, I know. I'm gonna have to wait until my cash flow is better, though. I know he'd offer to foot the bill, but I can't let him do that."

"Good luck telling-"

"Can't your banal chatter wait?"

The sharp question came from the corner of the lab and the pair looked over at a non-too-impressed Sherlock, hunched over a microscope. Molly's sudden warm mood instantly lost its lustre and she was filled with the urge to flee. _He can't help himself,_ her mind raged. _He can't let you finish, even when you're not bloody talking to him!_

"Why, is it bothering you?" John asked him, although the glint in his eye told her he already knew it was.

"As fascinating as your social life must be to someone lacking one, a man's freedom _is_ at stake."

Sherlock spoke as though they had committed a fatal social faux pas. If ever there was a greater occurrence of pot calling kettle black, Molly had yet to hear of it. His sly dig at her expense brushed against a tender nerve and she did her best not to let it show, but there was no hiding the sudden downturn of her smile. Her eyes fell to the floor and her torso shifted position, ready to lead her out the room. Although she knew (or hoped) the remarks weren't personal, she didn't fancy lingering to bear the brunt of any more, but a sigh stopped her. It came from John and when her eyes moved upwards again, she saw a mild frown creasing his brow.

"Sherlock," he began, his tone irritable. "Do you actually need me here right now?"

"Well," the other man replied. "Until the results from my experiment come through-" Sherlock's focus swivelled on to Molly and she knew he referred to the recent whipping of the unfortunate corpse upstairs. "There is little for anyone to do right now."

Correctly assuming it to be a second remark against Molly, John's frown deepened, but he didn't reply to the cantankerous man, turning his head to face her instead. "Any more of that coffee going?" he asked.

"Erhhm…yes," she answered quietly, her fingers interlacing to allow her thumbs to run circles around one another. "Yes, there is."

"Good. Well, in that case, shall we take our "banal chatter" elsewhere?"

"O-okay," she stammered, a smile tugging at her lips once again. Looking back, she saw that Sherlock had already returned his attention to the microscope and, if time had been a luxury, she would have been able to discern whether it was in fact a sulky expression he wore on his face.

John followed her out of the laboratory, before falling into step beside her.

"Look," he began." I'm really sorry about him." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, referring to Sherlock. "I've only known him a couple of weeks, but it took about five minutes to realise that he's not exactly a people person."

Molly wholeheartedly agreed. "I probably found that out at the same time you did," she said. "I met him on my first day back and, whilst a few words beginning with A were thrown around, amiable wasn't one of them."

John's laughter reverberated off the corridor walls. "Really? I wonder why."

They both laughed together as they reached the stairwell and it was then that Molly realised something was missing. John's limp, to be exact. For the entire time she'd known him, never had he been without the walking stick attached to his right hand, yet, there he was, walking perfectly beside her, without a hint of trouble in his steps. As far as she was aware, John hadn't had any surgery on his leg in the past fortnight and she knew it was impossible to make such a miraculous recovery in such a short space of time. That left Molly wondering about her suspicions of the cause for his limp. Although they'd often discussed aspects of their therapy sessions, his injury had never become a topic of conversation, just as the reason for her mental breakdown hadn't either.

Deciding to leave the issue for the moment, knowing it was something that required a delicate approach, she checked the time on her watch. She had another five minutes before those results Sherlock so desperately wanted were due, so she stopped by the entrance to the morgue, turning to face John. Not everyone was as comfortable with the place as she.

"I'm going to have to quickly get those results," she explained. "Would you rather wait here or do you want to come in?"

"Am I allowed in?" he wondered.

"I'm the only one on duty, so it'll be fine," she reassured.

"Well, sure, but only if it won't get you into trouble."

Molly waved a hand dismissively, before pushing the door open. The temperature difference hit her immediately and, out of the corner of her eye, she noticed by the quick shake of his shoulders that he felt it too. The recipient of Sherlock's harsh beating was still lying uncovered on the table and Molly threw an apologetic grimace John's way.

"Sorry," she said. "It's not a particularly pretty sight."

"Don't worry," he insisted. "I've seen worse…unfortunately."

Over the course of their friendship, John had never gone into particular detail about his time in the army, but, every so often, he'd offer a comment that would allude to some of the things he had faced during his service. She wanted to delve deeper into his history, as it was the reason he had ended up in therapy to begin with, but she refused to do so, preferring any divulgence to be of his own free will.

"Oh, yes, of course," she remarked. "Sorry."

They continued towards the body and she circled the table until she was standing by the body's left side. Sherlock's whipping had lasted for quite a while and the torso showed definite signs of the treatment it had undergone. The corpse had been pretty fresh when Sherlock arrived, so rigor mortis hadn't fully set in and there were small dents all over the skin, where the crop connected with the flesh. Molly moved her face in rather close for the examination and could sense John's curious gaze following hers.

"I'm afraid to ask," he whispered. Something about the dead tended to make people quieter. Rest in Peace and all that, Molly supposed. "But did Sherlock do that?"

Molly grinned. "Yes."

"Okay." Through her lashes, she could see he was bracing himself. "And how did he do it?"

"Riding crop," she replied.

John was silent for a moment and his face remained surprisingly neutral, but his eyes were telling a different story. "Right," he eventually said, slowly and softly. Then he moved his head a little closer to continue speaking. "Just to clarify. When I snuff it, don't let Sherlock near me."

Despite the morbidity of the subject, Molly couldn't stifle the giggle erupting from her lips. It had been a while since she last had cause to laugh and it felt incredible therapeutic. She'd definitely missed him, even if only a couple of weeks had passed. When the chuckling subsided, she continued her study. For the most part, there wasn't very much bruising present on the body at all, which was to be expected. Without blood flow, there was nothing to really cause the bruising. However, just below the left nipple were a few patches of skin decorated a delicate shade of lilac. It wasn't severe and she'd had to look closely to find it, but it was a result nonetheless, for which the Consulting Detective downstairs was waiting.

Heading over to the hanger, she fished in one of her coat pockets and pulled out her phone.

"What was the aim of the…experiment?" John queried, remaining where he was, his gaze still doing its own study of the corpse.

"Well," Molly replied, texting as she returned to John. "He didn't say a lot about it to me. Just said he wanted to know what bruises came up." Once the text was sent, she slipped the phone into the breast pocket of her lab coat. "So, how do you know Sherlock?"

"Remember the flat share?"

Molly nodded.

"It's with him."

For the second time that day, Molly's eyes became as wide as saucers. "Really?" she exclaimed quietly. "You _live_ with him?"

"Probably against my better judgement, but yes."

"I imagine you'll want a strong coffee, then?"

John laughed in response and followed her over to the office area, where a small kitchenette was situated. After checking the kettle contained enough water, she grabbed one of the clean cups by the sink.

Footsteps informed her that he had moved to stand beside her, leaning against the counter in much the same pose as when she first saw him in the lab. Again, his lack of physical impediment baffled her and she knew she couldn't keep it in much longer. Although it was sad to admit, an alarm bell was gently chiding in her brain and she didn't want John of all people to end up being someone other than she thought he was. He'd been the one solid thing in her life over the last half a year and she wasn't sure how she'd cope if that solidity crumbled.

Surely he wouldn't have lied about having a limp, because it was so obvious, making it impossible to suddenly discard without anyone noticing. She sincerely hoped it was something to do with his therapy sessions and, unwilling to bear the thought of those doubts festering in her brain for days on end, she steeled her courage and jumped into the deep end.

"John," she began, nervousness creeping up on her again. Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on one's point of view) her hands were still occupied with the task of making coffee, so she couldn't start twiddling her fingers.

"Hmm?" he hummed in reply, waiting patiently for the question that took a few heartbeats to arrive.

"I, um…I hope you don't mind me asking, but…" she couldn't keep her eyes from flitting down to his leg.

It didn't require a genius to predict what she was about to ask and John's eyes fell to the floor in front of him, a soft sigh rolling off his tongue. He shifted position, clearly feeling a little awkward and, for a second, Molly wanted to retract her question.

"I-I'm sorry, I didn't want to pry-"

"No, no," John cut her off, raising a hand to silence her protests. "It's alright." He straightened up and turned so he was fully facing her, before shoving his hands in his jeans pockets. "I'm surprised you didn't say anything earlier." He let out a quick, rather humourless chuckle. "The limp was…psychosomatic, part of my PTSD. I got wounded in action, but it was nowhere near my leg. That was partly why I got referred to Thompson."

Molly saw the sourness creeping into his expression, as well as the difficulty he had in speaking about it, for which she felt partly responsible and didn't like the guilt such knowledge caused her to feel. "You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to," she insisted. "I know how personal it is."

John's eyes were back on the floor and his face was pensive, but a very small smile curved his lips ever so slightly. Molly offered the silence he needed and used the time to finish his drink. She hoped he'd still accept it. When he finally looked at her again, the gratitude glistened in his irises. Then he tilted his head back until it rested against the cupboard behind him, looked up at the ceiling and let out a deep breath.

"I'm never good at this talking-about-my-feelings lark," he sighed. "I'm Ella Thompson's worst nightmare!"

Molly allowed a smile to come to her face, glad to feel the tension breaking. "Me neither," she concurred, holding the drink out to him; white, no sugar, just as he liked it.

"What a bloody pair we make," John declared, taking the mug from her hands and she couldn't find it within herself to disagree.

" _A right pair of old fuck ups!"_ was a particularly memorable description he had given them once and the self-deprecating nature of the sentence did nothing to lessen the fondness she had for it. The relief surging through her veins made her love the phrase even more. He was still the same, still John and no sinister motives were behind the disappearance of his limp. Everything was okay. She kept repeating the mantra, letting it sink into her brain, reassure herself of the dependability that John Watson provided. It may have been dangerous, allowing herself to start relying on one person so heavily, but, right then, she didn't consider the consequences.

A quiet buzzing ran through the air and John pulled out his own phone. Apparently, having received the results of his experiment, Sherlock felt his flat mate's presence was once again required.

"I've got to go," John explained, holding his phone up apologetically. "Are you coming?"

"Afraid not," she said. "I've got stuff to do down here. I'll see you soon, though?" She hadn't meant to phrase it as a question, but there was a part of her wondering if chance meetings were to become the norm for them now. The sensible part of her brain gave her a mental slap, telling her to stop being so clingy; it'd only been a fortnight, after all.

"Definitely," he confirmed, his smile gradually morphing back into its sunnier self. "Things have been pretty hectic for us recently, so we're going to have to elbow in a bit of free time for ourselves. Besides, this place seems to be like a second home for Sherlock, so you might even end up getting sick of the sight of me."

Molly chose to grin in reply, rather than speaking the words running through her mind. If she was honest, they startled her a little, so she decided to discard them from her thoughts completely, before even fully acknowledging them.

John's phone buzzed once more and he rolled his eyes. "He's worse than a nagging old wife!" he grumbled, earning another giggle from Molly.

Thanking her for the drink, he said his goodbyes, before taking the cup with him back upstairs.

Molly moved further into the actual morgue to watch him leave, yet again left alone with nothing but a dead body for company. This time, however, there wasn't a hint of failure in the air and she felt far more content in that moment than she had for quite some time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To me, this story is feeling very much a character driven thing, rather than a plot driven one. There will be a proper plot, I promise, it'll just take a little time to get there. If anyone is finding the pace of the story boring or has any issues with how the characters are being written so far, please do let me know :)
> 
> Thanks for reading and I'll update soon


	4. 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to warn readers that this chapter involves some disturbing topics. It won't be going into graphic detail, but I'm letting you all know in case anyone would rather not read about that sort of thing. If that's the case, then just skip past the section typed in italic :)

** Chapter Four **

_It's not real._

_It's not real._

_It's not_ REAL _!_

The young woman, hunched up in the corner of the room, rocked back and forth, whilst hands covered her ears to stifle all sound trying to harass them. She was trying to convince her brain that the fabric brushing against her skin _wasn't_ a pair of unwelcome hands roaming her body; that the increased heart rate _wasn't_ due to the terror of a horrific ordeal she'd just faced; that the disturbing images running through her mind were nothing more than _memories_ of the _past_ and that past should have no bearing on her future. She was home, she was alone and she was _safe_.

It took a tremendous amount of convincing, but Molly's body gradually began to accept the facts and she was able to carefully uncurl herself from the tight ball she'd retreated into. Slowly opening her eyes, she scanned the room, finding everything-besides her bed-to be in order. Deciding it would be safe to lower her hands, the silence of the room finally met her ears and she straightened her legs, feeling something tighten around her right foot. A surge of blind panic seized her heart, before she looked down to see a sheet wrapped around her toes, which was immediately removed.

Once the bed was returned to some semblance of normality, Molly checked the time on her mobile. Six am. That wouldn't have been too bad, were it not for the fact that she hadn't actually climbed into bed until two the same morning. She'd have to schedule a visit to a coffee shop into her walk to the tube, as it was going to take a lot of caffeine to get her through the day.

Having woken an hour ahead of her alarm, Molly was able to leisurely get herself ready, spending twice as long in the shower as usual. Wiping the steam from the bathroom mirror, the young woman spent a while simply gazing at her reflection and, for the first time in…well, before the "episode", Molly Hooper really studied herself. The pathologist had never had a stocky build, but it surprised her to realise just how gaunt her face had become. Her cheeks always erred on the slightly chubby side, yet that had all but disappeared in recent times. The direction of the room's lighting caused her cheekbones to throw sharp shadows down the contours of her face and the lack of sleep showed in large, dark circles around the eyes. The worst thing of all was that she knew the perfect remedy for her poor appearance, yet it felt impossible to attain.

Realising that further study probably wouldn't be a good idea, Molly threw her reflection a quick scowl, before proceeding to attack the wet mane of hair atop her head with the paddle brush. Knowing her face was a lost cause, Molly chose to spend her extra time doing something different with her hair. So far, she hadn't tried anything more exciting than a chignon, but, after a moment of consideration, went for a loose braid that hung over her right shoulder. It took some time and several attempts, but, eventually it reached a stage that she was happy with.

With that task completed, Molly prepared the rest of herself for the upcoming day. The patch of sky visible from the window teased with the promise of a sunny day, but the people already milling the streets were clad in jumpers and coats, meaning the temperatures were far from tropical. Molly dressed accordingly and, after a last check of her bag, finally exited the bedsit.

**0**

A mixture of nerves and excitement danced in her stomach, the way it always did before a session with Doctor Thompson. The psychiatrist's office had always been an impressive one and Molly tried to keep the anxiety at bay by preoccupying her mind with examination. The room had a rather peaceful feel to it, despite being located in the heart of London and, of course, Molly fully appreciated its respect of her beloved silence.

She couldn't quite remember when her love affair with quiet had begun, as she'd certainly never lived a peaceful life or come from a quiet home. It did fit in with her somewhat reserved persona, though. This was another thing she couldn't explain. With a mother in possession of a foghorn for a mouth and a younger brother inheriting the trait, Molly certainly didn't earn her mousy nature from either of them. Her father had been slightly more reserved, but never failed to confidently voice his opinions should the occasion call for it. Perhaps, in Molly's case, it was simply a case of her personality accommodating her environment. After all, like everything else, even the limelight had a limit to its capacity.

Thompson returned, letting the door swing shut with a gentle click, before taking the seat opposite her patient. The silence lingered for a moment or two longer, allowing the doctor a moment to assess the woman sat before her. Ella's face had always worn an expression of practised neutrality, which Molly both loved and loathed. Whilst it meant she wouldn't have to endure judgemental looks, it also meant she had no idea what the doctor was thinking.

"I like what you've done with your hair, Molly," Ella began, her soft voice rich and warm.

Molly had always liked the tone of the psychiatrist's voice, which she once admitted by blurting out to the doctor that she'd be good at reading the bedtime stories on the telly. Trying not to cringe at the slightly embarrassing memory, Molly forced herself to concentrate on what was being said.

"Um, thank you," she replied, her cheeks colouring at the unexpected compliment.

"How have you been since I last saw you?"

Molly considered the question, trying to arrange her thoughts into the most appropriate answer. It had been two weeks since their last appointment, so work was all she really had to speak about.

"Working," came her eventual answer. _What an exciting life you lead, Molly Hooper!_ If she'd been alone, the pathologist would have told her brain to shut up.

Ella waited expectantly, but, when nothing further followed the one word answer, she attempted to coax more information out of her. "And how's that been going?"

"Good. Good. I…I've settled back in alright. Everyone's been really nice so far. In fact, I've taken on my full time hours a couple of weeks earlier than originally planned."

"That's excellent," Ella congratulated, a smile spreading across her face. "So, you've had no trouble getting back into the swing of things?" She bowed her head slightly, as she started scribbling in her notepad.

"Not really," Molly confirmed, stretching her neck in an attempt to gaze upon the page being filled with pencil markings.

Molly lost count of the times she'd tried to sneak a peek of that pad of paper, to steal a glimpse of what the doctor really thought of her patient, but the angle and distance had always been against her. Today was no different. Apparently, it was a desire she shared with John, who actually managed to succeed once. He hadn't appreciated what he'd read, though.

"And how has your new schedule impacted on the other aspects of your life?" Ella continued.

Molly knew instantly what the psychiatrist was alluding to, but hoped evasion might steer the conversation towards a more comfortable topic. "It's, um, given me a focus again," Molly replied. "And it's nice having a different set of walls to look at each day."

"And what about at night?"

Molly bit the inside of her cheek. It was always the part of the session that filled her with the most apprehension. Whilst she wanted nothing more than to get it all off her chest, she also hated having to revisit the thoughts that plagued her mind at night time. Sensing the discomfort, Ella kept talking in an attempt to both soothe and encourage.

"I know it was something you were hoping for," she continued. "That a new routine might help your sleeping habits. Has there been any improvement?"

Releasing the skin from between her molars, Molly shrugged her shoulders. "Sort of."

"How?"

"Well…" Molly shifted position slightly, sitting more upright in the hope of imbuing more confidence into her posture than she actually possessed. "I mean…I s'pose I've started sleeping a bit longer each night. I've gained maybe an hour or two." Her eyes fell to the empty cardboard coffee cup resting in the bin.

"That's progress."

Progress. Molly mused over the word. Perhaps it was, if you considered progress to be scrambling out of bed each night, desperate for any source of light to banish the imaginary demons attacking you from the shadows.

"The dreams haven't gone, have they?"

A soft sigh passed Molly's lips. "No." Her eyes focused on the window. There used to be a "for sale" sign on the door of the empty building opposite, but it wasn't there anymore.

Ella nodded. "Are they still the same?"

"Pretty much." It had been a butcher's, back when the therapy first began.

"Pretty much? Does that mean they are changing in some way?"

"Sometimes." It was a shame when the butcher's closed down, as she'd often purchased a small something for lunch, as a personal reward after a good session.

"In what way?" Others might have become frustrated with the slow pace of conversation, but Ella was patient and knew how to deal with people like Molly.

"Less detail." Molly wondered what the shop might become, now that it had been sold.

"That's good to hear."

"But not always." Maybe it would be a clothing shop, or one of those small supermarkets that was popping up on the corner of every street nowadays.

"Sometimes is better than never," Ella declared.

"I still can't sleep afterwards, though." Or maybe it would be a café. There weren't enough of those along that particular street.

"I'm still willing to give you a prescription to help."

"No!" Molly's eyes flew to meet Ella's, a hint of panic flaring within them. It faded as quickly as it had appeared and she turned to look out the window once again. "No…thank you."

"Okay," Ella said, filling in more of the notebook, before placing it, along with the pencil, onto the small table beside her and altering her sitting position slightly. The pathologist glimpsed it in her peripheral vision and that, along with the deep breath taken, made it obvious that a very serious question was about to be aired. "Molly…"

There was a pause and the patient felt her chest get ever so slightly tighter with trepidation.

"We've been running these sessions for over six months now-"

Ella's legs were no longer crossed. Her elbows were resting on her knees and she was leaning forward; not by much, but enough to show she wanted her patient's full attention. Molly felt the panic rising in much the same way as rabbits probably did when faced with a pair of headlights.

"-and, although it has taken time, I've seen some remarkable progress from you and really hope this latest step forward is a sign of better things to come."

_What does she want? What does she want? What does she want?_

"However, I still have some concerns regarding your recovery."

The blood pounded through Molly's veins, as she anticipated the next sentence to exit Ella's mouth. She should have known it would happen eventually; it was inevitable. There was only so long one could avoid talking about the very reason they received therapy in the first place.

"I always said that we would go at whatever pace you felt was comfortable, wait until you felt ready, but I do think it is time we talked about why you're here."

"You already know," Molly insisted in a weak whisper, looking down at the hands clenched tightly together in her lap. There was no finger twiddling, because she wasn't nervous. She was terrified.

"Yes," Ella conceded. "But we've never actually _discussed_ it. As far as I'm aware, you haven't spoken to a _nyone_ about it."

"Spoke to the police." It was a pathetic argument, but never let it be said that Molly Hooper went down without out a (lacklustre) fight.

The ghost of a compassionate smile graced Ella's lips. "It's not the same, though, is it?"

"Does it have to be?" There was a hint of desperation in Molly's voice, as she asked the question. Surely Ella could give her just a little more time. Hadn't she said progress was being made? If that was the case, what would talking about the fucking thing do? Her eyes darted over at the clock hanging above the door and despair filled her when she realised the session was far from over.

"It'll be alright, Molly," Ella reassured. "We can take it slowly."

"I don't want to." The quiet plea quivered, as it sailed through the air. At least, it would have if the plea had been spoken aloud.

"Have you ever thought that these dreams may be the result of your refusal to speak about what happened?"

Molly didn't reply. She could feel the tears welling up and wanted so much for them to remain contained within her lashes, but their will far outmatched hers and they rolled silently down her cheeks.

"You can do this," Ella encouraged. Molly didn't believe her.

A sob erupted from the distraught young woman and her hands lifted to press against her eyes, as though trying to quell the flow of emotion and push it back inside.

"Let's at least try. If it really does get too much for you, I promise we will stop."

 _Why can't we stop now?!_ Molly felt like screaming it at the top of her lungs, but something held her back, something small and buried deeply, but there all the same. Occasionally, that small thing liked to make itself known in the subtlest of ways, which it did at that very moment. That small thing was the part of her psyche that, actually, _did_ want to talk about what had happened; that _did_ want to offload all the fear, confusion, hatred and regret digging its way into her soul and eroding her bones. It was making her tired and weak, with the constant nightmares and inability to function normally in society. The "I'm-all-better-now" mask she wore was starting to fray at the edges and it was only a matter of time before she fell into a sobbing heap in the middle of a room and got carted off to the nearest loony bin.

Something warm pressed against Molly's bicep and the contact sent the usual alarm bells off in her brain. Whipping her head up, she discovered it was Ella's hand, offering support through what the doctor knew was a difficult time. In Thompson's free hand was a small box of tissues and a thin, trembling hand reached down to pluck a few out of the horizontal hole, situated in the middle of the lid.

"Where shall we start?"

**0**

_It hadn't been expected. Surely it wasn't possible for a person to be that unlucky_ twice _? Everything about the day had been completely normal: Get up. Go to work. Come home. Relax with the telly, Toby and a glass or two of wine. A DVD had even been purchased for the occasion. Sadly, the evening didn't go as planned. They say that there are only two certainties in this world: death and taxes and I had chosen the former as the means of my profession. The call came a little after six and I was on my way to St Bart's by half past. Two bodies had come in to the hospital and there was nobody else available to call…well, nobody else with nothing to do on a Saturday night, anyway._

_It had taken a good few hours to get through the basic examinations and the paperwork was filled in as quickly as possible. I may not have had plans, but it didn't mean I wanted to spend the whole night at bloody work. I didn't leave the building until about quarter to ten and very much looked forward to finally watching the film waiting on the coffee table back home. I practically ran to my front door and had barely managed to drop my shoulder bag to the floor when the doorbell rang. Fed up and impatient, I pulled the door open and, upon discovering the identity of my visitor, my skin blazed and my insides froze._

_He'd found me._

_The man who had almost destroyed my life four years ago had_ found _me._

_Somehow, despite the passage of time, a change of address and switching from my father's name to my mother's, he'd tracked me down and there he was, at the foot of my front steps, watching me expectantly. My initial instinct was to slam the door shut and run, before calling the police, but he'd clearly been expecting it because his foot blocked the doorway just as I tried to close it. I kicked at his shoe in the vain hope of dislodging it, but he reached for my wrist and managed to pull me off balance, before shoving me backwards and charging into the flat._

_I was scrambling to my feet, when he clasped a handful of my ponytail and yanked me upright, before slamming me into the nearest wall. My elbow protested in pain, as my left arm was pinned unnaturally against my back. Up until that point, I'd been bucking against his restraint, but the pain forced me to stop. That was when he pressed against me even tighter and whispered in my ear._

_The next hour or so was a haze of terror, noise and pain, as I relived the ordeal forced upon me four years prior. I'd never expected it to happen again and all my efforts of remaining under the radar had been for nought. I'd never hated the legal system more than in that moment. If only he'd been found guilty the first time; if only there had been irrefutable proof, rather than my word against the well thought out manipulations of a smarmy lawyer. If only…if only._

_If only._

_I was left a sobbing, aching, disgusting mess and he left after making me promise I wouldn't tell a soul what happened. If I did, he'd find me again and really make it_ hurt _._

_I promised._

_Of course, the bruises on my face and body weren't the easiest to cover up and the questions quickly came. Right then and there, I had the perfect opportunity to seek help, but cowardice coerced me into fallacy and I pretended it was the result of a violent mugging. It was a sad state of affairs to find yourself in, when you_ wished _to have been the victim of such a crime._

_My lies were successful and everyone accepted the story. I was relieved beyond measure that nobody delved further into the matter, seeing the holes in the tale, yet there was also a hint of disappointment. It wouldn't have taken long for me to crack, to spill the truth to a listening ear, but the opportunity never arose. If only someone had tried._

_If only…if only._

**0**

The scene replayed in Molly's head, as she relayed the events of the "mugging" to the attentive psychiatrist. Ella didn't interrupt once or ask any questions. She didn't even write in her notebook. Molly Hooper had the full rapt attention of the dark skinned woman opposite, who accepted the deceit without a shadow of doubt crossing her mind. If she were a spectator, Molly could have felt sorry for the doctor, who believed herself to be the sole recipient of the truth behind her patient's mental instability, yet, in actual fact, was being fed nothing more than lies.

The session ended, Molly went home and, at six o' clock that evening, Ella left her office, believing she had helped a damaged young woman reach a major milestone in her path to recovery. If only she had known how wrong her presumptions were. If only she had known the pain Molly felt at revisiting that horrific moment in time. If only she had known that, rather than dispel the nightmares, it only made them worse. If only she had known that, for the first time in two months, Molly screamed herself awake and ended up smashing her fist against the nearest wall, hoping physical pain would override the mental.

If only…if only.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How was that, everybody? I hope it came out okay. Writing a therapy session was a bit of a challenge for me, as I've no idea how they actually work, but hopefully it comes across as pretty realistic. Thanks for reading and I'll see you all soon :)


	5. 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not entirely sure about the pacing of this chapter. I think it's alright, but worry that it might be a little bit rushed. Let me know what you think :)

**Chapter Five **

The first half of Molly's shift ran slower than she could have ever imagined possible. What was usually a minor trial became an arduous chore and Joseph, who was hard to bear at the best of times, had turned into her greatest adversary. She knew it was probably the tiredness talking, but she would've loved nothing more than to rip his haughty head off and feed it to the pigeons. She reckoned even the flying rats of London would have rather eaten the litter on the streets, though.

The past week since her last therapy session had not been an easy one and she was tempted to simply cancel all future appointments with the psychiatrist. Sleep was even more elusive than usual, forcing her mood to nosedive and she'd even declined coffee with John because of it. She didn't want him of all people to be affected by the state she was currently in and, after little more than three hours' sleep a night over the past six days, Molly knew that if she didn't do something about the insomnia soon, she was in danger of having a serious relapse.

With the melancholy playing on her mind and a sigh heavier than a ship's anchor, Molly plonked her tray onto the counter and surveyed the food on offer in the canteen. Despite the growling of her stomach, which displayed its disapproval of having nothing to digest before midday, none of the food before her looked very appetising. She knew she'd have to force something down, however, so tried to determine which would be easier to consume.

Lost in her musings, Molly was unaware of the presence behind her, until an unmistakable baritone signalled its arrival.

"What are you thinking-pork or the pasta?"

She almost physically jumped in surprise, before turning her head to see Sherlock stood unusually close behind her. Human contact was never a strong point for Molly and he had always held a commanding-sometimes intimidating-presence, but a certain amount of space always remained between them. His current proximity immediately set her on edge and she could feel her body involuntarily retract, trying to force as much distance between them as it could, without bringing attention to itself. Adding to that was the fact that this was the very first time he had ever initiated an actual conversation with her. Normally, the only time words were thrown her way was in the form of a request and she didn't know if she had the energy to experience Sherlock's interpretation of the "banal chatter" he had reprimanded her and John for having a couple of days ago.

"This place is never going to trouble Egon Ronay, is it?" he remarked, as Molly wondered who the Hell Egon Ronay even was. "I'd stick with the pasta-don't want to be doing roast pork. Not if you're slicing up cadavers."

Molly was utterly gobsmacked and completely baffled. A part of her wondered if she was dreaming up the entire scenario, as, not only was he making small talk, but he _smiled_ at her, too. Was her need for sleep that desperate? _Best not to cancel your therapy, Molls._

"Er...," she began, trying to buy some time for a reply. "Wh-what are you having?"

"Don't eat when I'm working," he declared. "Digesting slows me down."

"Oh, you're working here tonight?" She couldn't decide if that was a good thing or bad. If ever she was in danger of snapping back at whatever harsh remark might escape his lips, it was during extreme tiredness. Then again, she was reminded of Joseph's absence whenever Sherlock was around, so it was easy for the pros to outweigh any cons.

"I need to examine some bodies," he explained, either ignoring or unaware of how disconcerting his audience found his attempts at being uncharacteristically nice. "Eddie Van Coon and Brian Lukis."

The names immediately rang a bell in Molly's memory and her eyes flitted down to the sheet of paper adorning her clipboard. As expected, the very two names Sherlock had just uttered were printed in bold black letters.

"Funny, they're on my list," she said, looking back up at him. "I did the post mortems."

"Could you wheel them out again for me?" he asked, the earnestness of his expression intensifying immensely. Any fleeting considerations she may have had for coincidence rapidly diminished.

"Well…the paperwork's already gone through," She replied, knowing his request would be frowned upon by her superiors and she was reluctant to lose her job on account of the consulting detective, even if he was the sole person to hold such a position. However, the very fact that the request came from him was the reason she felt so reluctant to refuse. A post mortem was never a dull or routine affair whenever Mr Sherlock Holmes was involved and she couldn't help wonder what marvels she might witness this time around.

Sensing the conflict within the woman before him, Sherlock's expression morphed once again, this time exuding a slightly boyish charm, as his gaze swept over her. Molly had to admit she found it a little disconcerting how chameleon-like his temperament could sometimes be. His eyes focused on the top of her head for a moment, before he began speaking again.

"You've changed your hair," he commented, pointing to the side swept chignon.

"W-what?" she blurted, surprised at the sudden shift in topic.

"The style," he elaborated. "It's usually parted in the middle."

Molly stared at him blankly, having no response to his remark. She was definitely too tired to deal with this. Her lips changed position, ready to voice some sort of reply, but he cut her off.

"It's good; suits you better this way."

Molly's eyes widened and she could feel her cheeks warming at the completely unexpected compliment, before a sudden surge of panic ran through her. Was he… _flirting_? Her thoughts immediately returned to the day she had tried to ask him out for coffee and she wondered if he really had misconstrued her intentions and this was his fumbling attempt at accepting her advances. If that was indeed the case, how on Earth did one react to such an event?

Before the dismay could increase, the slightly more awake compartment of her brain thought through the conversation they had just had and all worries quickly subsided. Yes, he was being friendly and complimentary, but he had also just requested something of her (as per usual), which she had possibly been about to refuse. He must have been desperate if he was resorting to flirtation in order to get his way, meaning he had to be on a case of some kind. She had to admit that she did enjoy watching him in the midst of his profession, although John's absence was duly noted. It had certainly become a rarity in recent times for Sherlock to enter the hospital without the company of his slightly shorter companion.

Sparing a last glance at the unappetising food, she discarded her tray and decided to acquiesce to Sherlock's request, signalling that he should follow her to the morgue. He kept up to her pace very easily, but, as expected, the moment his wish was granted, all small talk and niceties ceased. Oddly enough, the fact that Molly was being used didn't trouble the pathologist as much as it probably should have. Perhaps it was because she expected that sort of behaviour from the man, or maybe she had quickly realised that, to Sherlock, the rest of humanity really only had one purpose-to serve _him_. As far as she had seen, the only person to break the mould in the detective's regards was John.

As Molly started searching for the two bodies, another person entered the morgue. He was also a detective, albeit of a more conventional type. His name was Dimmock and, from the sudden arrogant shift in Sherlock's posture upon the DI's arrival, it was clear that Van Coon and Lukis were being used to prove some sort of point. Well, actually it turned out that their _feet_ were the means of proof and she could only watch on in a mixture of confusion and awe, as a cryptic exchange passed between the two men, involving tattoo parlours and books.

From the expression on the DI's face, the point had most definitely been proven and the pair strolled out of the morgue, without either sparing a backward glance at the woman responsible for putting the bodies away again. Molly wasn't especially busy in that moment, given that it was actually her lunch hour, so, once Van Coon and Lukis were safely packed away again, she removed her gloves and dropped them in the pedal bin by the sink. Retrieving her phone from her lab coat pocket, she decided to send John a quick text.

**-Sherlock was here just now, looking at feet. Big case, is it?**

The reply didn't take very long.

**-Foot fetish ;)**

Molly giggled at John's response, the first bit of real humour she'd experienced in the past week and she suddenly regretted her decision of not seeing him a couple of days previously. Rather than repel him with her foul mood, he may have been just the thing to brighten it. Leaning against the counter, she continued the text conversation.

**-We all have our vices XD were you dispatched elsewhere?**

**-I'd like to say yes, but I was actually catching up on some sleep. Did you know he doesn't sleep during a case?**

**-Doesn't eat, either, apparently.**

**-I know. And they're the two things I love most! Bloody nutter.**

**-Aren't we all? :)**

**-Sadly, yes. How are you? Feeling better?**

Molly considered his question for a moment, wondering how truthful she should be. She certainly didn't want to be the downer on his day, especially if he was feeling exhausted. That was something she could certainly sympathise with.

**-A bit. Sorry about Tuesday.**

**-Don't be. When are you next free?**

**-Saturday, I think. You?**

**-As long as a serial killer doesn't wreak havoc on London, sounds good to me. Hopefully I'll have got some sleep by then.**

**-Best make it a couple of espressos, then :)**

**-Perfect. I'll let you know a time. X**

Molly and John said their goodbyes to one another and she plopped the device back into her pocket a final time, before leaving the morgue to finish the task she'd been about to start before lunch.

**0**

"A _hairpin_?"

"Yes. I was tied to a chair, gagged and almost shot over a bloody hairpin!"

Molly laughed out loud, despite the mild irritation clouding John's features. It was probably the most bizarre tale she had ever been told and, had she never met Sherlock, the young woman would have found it hard to believe. As it was, Molly had little trouble imagining Sherlock and him running around London in pursuit of Chinese smugglers.

"I'm surprised you haven't knocked him out yet," Molly commented, swirling the cream atop her drink with a spoon. "I mean, Sherlock seems to get the cases and credit, whilst you endure all the hardship."

"Probably why he split Wilkes' fee," John remarked. "Guilt money."

"Does he even feel such a thing?" Molly wondered, trying not to think of the strangeness of her last encounter with the baffling man.

"You'd be surprised," John replied. "He refused the money at first."

"Really?" Molly's eyes widened with surprise. John had revealed the full amount of money the banker had been willing to pay for Sherlock's services and, if put in their position, she couldn't have said her morality was high enough to have declined. "Blimey, he really does enjoy it, doesn't he?"

"Oh, yes!" John confirmed, gulping down the last of his coffee, before sliding his chair back and standing. "Back in a sec. Just gotta visit the gents'."

Molly nodded in understanding and, lifting her large mug for a swig of hot chocolate, watched him head to the rear of the little coffee shop, which was the location of their rendezvous. She was amazed at just how confident and sure his stride was nowadays in comparison to the previous sluggishness brought on by his heavy limp. His posture was far more self-assured, too and his entire manner held an element of…contentment. He'd only been living with Sherlock for a few weeks, but it seemed to have already had an extremely positive effect on the former army doctor. Despite having one of the most unsociable men in the country for a flatmate, John seemed immeasurably happier. She began to wonder if she should try living with a sociopath, too.

A tremor of fear ran along Molly's spine, as she wondered at the consequences of her friend's new found joy. Whilst she was happy for John, a part of her wondered if a divide would start to grow between them. After all, he was nearing the end of his road to recovery, whilst she was barely past the starting line and she didn't want to hold him back, but also feared losing one of the only people who had really helped her through the past few months. By no means a conscious action on his part, their regular meetings had offered a tether to the real world, as well as someone who truly understood her situation. There didn't appear to be any change in their interaction with one another so far, but there was no guarantee it wouldn't in the future. If Molly was truthful with herself, she was terrified of losing him, as it would leave her feeling utterly alone.

Although a little longer than a second, John was back soon enough and Molly, shrugging off the negative musings, watched him once again, as he strode towards their little table by the window. Settling in his seat once more, her study didn't go unnoticed and he glanced at her curiously. She forgot that, at times, he could be almost as perceptive as his flatmate.

"What?" he asked.

Molly placed her cup back on the table and plastered a smile on her face. "Well…I'm just thinking that Sherlock might not be the only one enjoying his work," she replied.

John lifted his brows, seeking elaboration on her statement.

"You seem happier," she explained. "More confident and your sessions with Ella have finished, so I'm assuming your PTSD is getting a lot better."

John shifted in his seat, getting more comfortable and considering the findings of her quick study. "I suppose I am," he eventually replied. "I mean, there's no walking stick anymore and living with someone like Sherlock means I'm never bored."

Molly's smile turned more genuine, as he confirmed her suspicions. She wondered if Sherlock had a brother or sister willing to take her in, as it'd done wonders for her friend. Then again, it probably wasn't the best idea, given her nocturnal habits. The screams were doing even _her_ head in. Before she could dwell on that particular subject any further, Molly changed topic.

"With Ella off your back now," she began. "What's happening with your blog?"

"Funny you should ask," he said. "Because I've actually started writing it."

A quiet chuckle escaped her lips. "You mean, now that you're not seeing Ella, you're actually going to start following her advice?"

His laughter mingled with hers. "I guess I am."

"What's it about-just your day-to-day goings on?"

"It was," he explained. "But now it's focused more on the cases we get."

"So, are you his official…" Molly searched for the most appropriate term to use. "… _partner_ now?"

"In a way, I suppose." The expression on John's face made it clear he wasn't entirely sure himself what he was with regards to Sherlock. "At least, he seems to want me around for his cases, although I don't think I really offer that much, besides basic medical knowledge."

"Well, I'll admit I don't know him anywhere near as well as you, but he doesn't seem the type to tolerate a person's presence without a good reason. You must have something to offer."

"Hmm, maybe," he replied, his gaze growing far away.

Molly allowed him his moment of reflection, as she finished off her drink before it got too cold. Gentle taps on the window signalled the arrival of rain and she was eternally grateful to the large coat she had decided to bring with her. Unfortunately, John wasn't able to say the same. All he had was a hoodless jacket that was definitely not made for a damp, English spring. She studied the visible patch of sky peeking around the coffee shop's front canopy and the broken cloud meant the rain was falling in brief showers, rather than a torrential downpour.

A buzz and vibration against the table broke Molly's companion out of his retrospection. Picking up the phone in front of him, John read through the text he had just been sent and an incredulous frown furrowed his brow.

"What the Hell does he need _bleach_ for?" he queried aloud, before Molly could wonder what was wrong.

"Sherlock?" Molly asked, not really needing an answer.

"The one and only," John replied, sliding the phone into his jacket pocket, without responding to the message. "Dread to think what the flat might look like when I get back. And what kind of experiment involves household bleach? Actually, I'd rather not know."

Molly smiled and dropped her purse into her bag, as she sensed their meeting was coming to a close. John picked up the paper from the table, before moving from his chair and the pair thanked the waitress by the till, before exiting the shop. They stood underneath the canopy for a moment, waiting for the last of the current shower to pass and took the opportunity to say their goodbyes.

"We have to do this more regularly," he declared, pulling the zip up to his chin. "It's been, what, a month since we last met up?"

His statement pleased Molly more than she even realised at the time and she clamped the inside of her cheek between her teeth to keep a wide grin from spreading across her face. "We've seen each other at the hospital during that time," she reminded, although she regretted the words the moment they exited her mouth. She certainly didn't want him thinking she had no interest in meeting up regularly.

"True," he agreed. "But it's difficult to relax with a certain arrogant twat around." Although the moniker sounded harsh, it was said with a lopsided grin and a wink. "And, ironically, afternoons with you provide the sanity I don't get around Sherlock."

Molly couldn't help but laugh in astonishment at his remark. It had been a _long_ time since anyone called her "sane". And it was in comparison to Sherlock, so what did that say about the consulting detective? He, however, had never been sectioned, even though he was far from what anyone would call normal, so it seemed that sanity was a relative concept. If only Molly's doctors and psychiatrist shared John's view. If only _Molly_ shared John's view of herself.

The doctor was watching the sky, waiting for the patch of blue to fly over their heads, when he turned back to her. "Right then," he said. "Apparently, I'm off to buy some bleach and then I'm going home. If I live after today, I'll see you soon. No doubt a visit to the morgue is scheduled sometime this week."

Molly giggled. "Well, my bedsit has a spare floor if you find your flat no longer has any."

"I'll bear that in mind," he smiled in return. "See you later."

With a quick squeeze of her arm, John lifted the collar of his jacket to stave off the damp air and walked away in his typically brisk, militaristic fashion. Molly watched his retreating form for a while, before beginning a stroll in the opposite direction. The rain was kept at bay for the entirety of her walk to the tube. Unfortunately, upon reaching her stop, it made a vigorous reappearance and softly collided with her face, as she climbed the steps leading onto the street. The second shower was shorter, but much heavier than the first and, despite running most of the way, she was still impressively drenched by the time she reached her small block of flats.

Chucking her bag on the floor beside the front door and hanging her coat on the back of the chair by the window to dry, the pathologist kicked off her shoes and began rifling through her drawers for more slobbish clothing. Pulling out the hair band that secured her locks in a tight ponytail, Molly ran her fingers along her scalp to soothe the tingles that always came after having her hair up.

The next item on the agenda was to turn on the heating for a little while in order to warm the bedsit. London's temperature rose steadily with each passing week, but it was still cold enough for humans to require a little help with regulating their body temperatures. Hot cups of tea were also a great help with that.

After her coffee shop outing, Molly had been provided with a little task for the evening and she looked around for her laptop, which was lying innocently on the end of her bed. After opening the lid and firing it up, she headed for the kettle. After a couple of minutes, armed with dressing gown and mug of tea, she reclined on the sofa and clicked on the Internet Explorer icon, before typing into the Google search bar. John Watson's blog was the first result listed and she selected it, ready to see firsthand the product of his former therapist's recommendation.

It was pretty simple to look at and very easy to navigate, of which Molly highly approved. Substance over style; it was an ideal that definitely fit John. There were only a small number of entries so far and, although the first few of those were very brief, she opened and read each one. Pointless was a particularly sad read, even though it was only four words long and someone named Bill Murray had decided to comment.

It wasn't until the fifth entry that John began to actually start detailing the events of his day, even though it was a rather unremarkable one and she could still sense the apathetic attitude behind the words. He simply wasn't interested and didn't feel the need to put the effort in, no matter how often Ella Thompson assured him it would help.

The attitude completely changed by the time she reached A Strange Meeting. It was obviously the day he first met Sherlock and, although hesitant at first, his writing soon took on a wealth of vigour and life that all the previous entries lacked. It was because _something_ had _happened_. That was the big difference between John and her. She craved silence and nothingness, yet he thrived on excitement, noise and… _somethings_. She read on and began to become engrossed in his accounts.

By the time she reached A Study in Pink, she was hooked. Of course, the young woman had glimpsed the methods of Sherlock Holmes from time to time, but to read the progressing of a case from start to finish was altogether something else. She shared her friend's wonder at the bizarre man's deductive skills and her half empty cup of tea was neglected on the floor by her feet, as she continued to read.

Molly was halfway through an argument between the two flatmates, in the comments section of a later post, when she suddenly froze. A wave of memory washed over her, bringing with it a rush of images and sensation, as her mind relived the last few moments of her afternoon with John. The recollection of something extraordinary hit her. He'd touched her. John had actually touched her. He'd held her arm-if only for a second-and applied a careful amount of pressure, before releasing it and walking away.

And Molly hadn't even flinched.

In fact, she hadn't even noticed until hours later. It was a spur of the moment action on his part and it all happened so quickly that she had failed to realise. She felt…she felt…well, she didn't really know how she felt. She was confused, definitely and surprised, but her reaction was far more complex than two emotions could express. Questions ran through her mind, but the biggest of all was: what did it mean?

Doctor Thompson was well aware of Molly's dislike for physical contact, but the young woman couldn't decide whether she should disclose the recent revelation during their next session or not. It was possible to spend the rest of the night simply going round in circles thinking about it and she suddenly felt a little ridiculous putting so much thought into such a little thing. People touched all the bloody time, so why should it be such a momentous thing for her? It was another reminder of why Molly Hooper was not normal.

Deciding that she was far too overwhelmed and lacking in sleep to really think about it any further, she turned her attention back to the screen of the laptop and continued reading. She wanted to discover if Sherlock really had blown up John's cans of beer.


	6. 6

** Chapter Six **

On the morning of April the twenty third, two rather unexpected events occurred in quick succession. Molly Hooper absent-mindedly placed a crisp into her mouth, gazing out of the windows lined up on the opposing wall as she walked, when something-or some _one-_ collided with her. A plasticky crunch, followed by several exclamations of "Oh!" was pursued by a quiet _thud_ , before a round of apologies started spewing from the pair.

"Oh, s-sorry," Molly stammered, as the gentleman bent down to retrieve the half empty packet of Wotsits. She had been completely oblivious to her surroundings and the embarrassment made her face flush a deep crimson.

"No, it's my fault," the stranger insisted, with an unmistakable cockney twang to his soft voice, as he reached full height once more. "I'm always forgetting to look where I'm going." A wide apologetic smile spread across his face, making an already youthful face appear even more boyish.

Molly had never before seen the man stood in front of her and her eyes immediately flew to the I.D badge dangling in front of his chest. The evidence proved that he was on the hospital's payroll, but they had never previously met. She was certain she knew everybody who worked at St Barts, but, then remembered her extended absence and supposed he must have been a new member of staff. He was almost a head taller than her, with short, black hair fashionably ruffled and a light dusting of stubble around his chin. His large brown eyes held a mysterious twinkle and she noted that the smile didn't quite reach them.

If his posture was anything to go by, it could have just been shyness, as he shifted from foot to foot, his hands hanging awkwardly in front of him, still holding the Wotsits. It was apparent that he didn't want to simply carry on his way and Molly's pulse began to rapidly speed up. Did he want to have a conversation with her? God, she hoped not!

Her fears were realised when, after discovering he still held her packet of crisps, the young man looked inside and saw that the majority of the contents had been spilt on the floor, thus giving him reason to continue conversation. "I hope that wasn't all you had for lunch," he chuckled nervously and, despite herself, Molly couldn't help but find his awkwardness a little endearing. It wasn't very often the previously sectioned woman felt like the most confident person in a room. "I haven't seen you around here before," he remarked, echoing her thoughts about him.

"I was, um, on leave for a few months," Molly explained. She was going to leave the explanation there, but a spark of bravery caused her to elaborate. "I was thinking the same about you, actually."

Her interest seemed to please him, as his smile grew a little in confidence. "Yeah, I'm new," he confirmed. "Probably started just after you left."

Then he surprised her by holding his hand out for her to shake. It was an oddly self-assured gesture for a man who had been hopping with uncertainty a moment before. "I'm Jim," he said. "Jim Mortimer from I.T."

Knowing there would be no other socially acceptable response, Molly steeled herself and took his hand gently, reciprocating the shake. "Molly Hooper. I work in the morgue."

Their hands parted and she tucked it into her lab coat pocket, so that he wouldn't see her fist flexing. She was momentarily reminded of the stark difference between her reaction to Jim's touch and that of John's a few days ago, which had no effect on her whatsoever. It still baffled her immensely and, despite trying to put it out of her mind, the memory resurfaced far more often than was necessary.

"Really?" Jim remarked, an element of surprise on his face. "You don't look…" he trailed off, before deciding to start again. "Sorry, guess I've seen too many horror films," he finished sheepishly. "'Course there's not much call for me down there, so I always imagine it's like something from a Hammer Horror movie. More interesting than a room full of PCs, anyway."

Molly couldn't help but smile at the self-deprecation in his tone. He knew just how ignorant his remarks were and she appreciated that. What also surprised her was the curiosity in his expression. Although most of the hospital staff weren't fazed by the fact that a morgue lay beneath their feet, few ever showed any interest in the place and there was a slight unspoken divide between pathology and the other departments. "It's not as exciting as you think. Most of my time is spent surrounded by Petri dishes and paperwork."

"But, still, you're kind of like a detective in a way, aren't you?" he asked. "You have to figure out what happened to the people down there. That's a _lot_ more exciting than calculating wages and fixing a computer virus."

A detective? Molly had never thought of herself that way before. The title always brought people such as Greg Lestrade and Sherlock Holmes to mind and including herself in that sort of league never occurred to the mousy young woman. Jim certainly had an unusual take on the world and, against all the bells chiming in her brain and every expectation she'd had of that day, Molly was starting to feel glad she had bumped into Jim Mortimer.

"Well, I'd best, y'know, get off," Jim said, feet shifting from side to side again. "Nice to meet you, Molly." He gave a last boyish smile, before starting to walk away. After no more than a couple of steps, he stopped and turned, an extremely embarrassed and sheepish look on his face. He'd forgotten about the packet of Wotsits still clutched in his hand and he held them out to her. "Sorry again," he said, earning a chuckle from Molly.

She took the crisps from him, before noting that he made no further attempt to move.

"I dunno if you'd be interested," he began and she could see the awkwardness increasing in his demeanour.

Molly's heart started racing again. _Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!_

"But, if you ever want to get, y'know, a coffee or-"

"Molly!"

The young woman almost passed out at the sudden shock of hearing her name echoing through the corridor. Her head whipped round, the ponytail dangling from the back of it smacking across her cheek and she saw the unmistakably tall and lean figure of Sherlock standing between the double doors currently held open by each of his hands. His pose was reminiscent of the one Jesus struck on the cross and she wondered what he would've made of such a comparison. The distinctive coat and scarf were missing from his body, meaning he had already made himself comfortable in the lab or morgue during her brief absence.

"Y-yes?" she squeaked, trying to swallow her heart back into her chest. He certainly knew how to grab attention, even if it resulted in giving the very people he wished to speak to a minor coronary.

"I need you," he stated simply, offering no further clarification, as though the fact he desired her presence was explanation enough.

"W-well, I'm on my lunch at the moment, but Jos-"

"Joseph is a moron," Sherlock declared. "I need someone who knows what they're doing."

The unexpected compliment arrived like a slap to the face and she completely forgot about everyone and everything else around her. Had that really just happened? Her brain tried to process the exact words that had just left the consulting detective's mouth and it took a moment for her to fully accept the truth her ears offered. As far as Molly was aware, she had no hearing problems, meaning Sherlock really had said what she just heard. He'd just offered her a compliment. It may have been unconsciously done, but he'd done it nonetheless and she wasn't entirely sure how to respond.

Suddenly remembering where she was, Molly turned back to Jim and smiled apologetically, before realising his eyes were no longer on her, but the enigmatic man now walking back through the doors he'd previously held open.

"I'll see you later," she said as a means of farewell and Jim's attention briefly returned to her. Before he could reply, however, Molly had already begun following the impatient path Sherlock had forged back to the morgue, trying not to be too glad about the unintentionally well-timed interruption provided.

**0**

"Bloody ridiculous!" fumed Joseph, just as Molly entered the lab.

Her colleague was red faced and bristling with displeasure, as he pushed past her, their shoulders connecting hard enough for her to be spun round in his direction.

"Ow!" she complained, gripping her right shoulder. There had been considerable force behind the collision. "Jo-"

Before she could finish, the disgruntled employee stopped and turned to face Molly.

"Never in my career have I been spoken to like that!" he declared, jabbing a finger in the air between them to emphasise his words. "And by a _graduate_ chemist!" The sheer incredulity on Joseph's face was almost enough to make her want to laugh, but she daren't; it would've hardly done anything to improve matters. "I'll be speaking to Parsons about this."

With that threat left dangling in the air, Joseph turned, the swish of his white coat tails giving the action dramatic effect. Molly just stared after him, a little bewildered, her shoulder mildly throbbing and rather frightened of the consequences that could follow the day's events. Behind all that, however, was a spark of amusement, but she made sure to keep her smirk to the absolute minimum. She could just imagine what Sherlock might have said to Joseph and, whilst her pompous colleague may have deserved a dressing down every now and then, he probably didn't _really_ warrant whatever form of scolding Sherlock had provided. After all, Joseph wasn't a particularly pleasant person to be around, but he was good at his job and Molly had always assumed that was all that mattered to the consulting detective.

Said detective was currently settled on the stool in front of a couple of microscopes, with the ever faithful John a few paces behind, exasperation and amusement battling for dominance in his expression. He must have already given his flatmate a stern word, because each man refused to look in the others' direction. Deciding there was little else to be done about the situation for the moment, Molly walked over to them.

"So, what do you need?" she asked, offering a hesitant smile of greeting in John's direction. He reciprocated with a warm smile of his own, which dissipated a large amount of the tension in the room.

"I need these samples analysed," Sherlock said, gesturing to the three dishes beside him without removing his sight from the eyepiece of the lens. "And the twenty year old female brought in last Monday; I need the result from her toxicology report. I would have looked for it myself, but your… _colleague_ was being difficult."

Molly had never heard the word colleague spoken with such disdain before, but at least she now understood what had started the disagreement between him and Joseph; clearly a case of clashing egos. She nodded and set to retrieving the desired items immediately. With the frankly surly expression painting the tall, pale man's features, she thought it wise not to bother conversing or wasting any time.

As she rummaged through files, the squeak of doors was heard, before an unexpected voice rang through the air.

"Sherlock!"

Hearing the raised voice of Mike Stamford, Molly couldn't resist sating her curiosity and peered around the doorframe to watch the scene unfold. Attempting to reprimand Sherlock was certainly a feat that required bravery, but then, Stamford was a Geordie and it was never wise to underestimate that particular breed. He was standing in front of the detective, hands on his portly hips, but, further examination revealed that Stamford wasn't truly angry; he simply wanted to avoid any further hassle.

"It doesn't matter how chummy you are with the Yard," he began. "If you behave like that again, you will end up being barred for life."

The recipient of the scolding still did not look up from the microscope, and the lack of expression on the long face made it hard to discern whether he even acknowledged what was said. This did little to deter Stamford, though.

"Are you listening?" he asked. "Joseph was spitting venom, but I just about managed to calm him down… _this time._ I can't guarantee it'll work again, though. If he does go to Derek Parsons, you can kiss this lab goodbye, because it'll be such a ball ache for you to come in here that even Lestrade will think twice about giving you cases."

A nerve was most definitely struck just then, as Sherlock's gaze flew up to meet Mike's.

"That got your attention, eh?" The bespectacled doctor remarked, a tiny smirk pulling the left corner of his mouth. He took a couple of advancing steps, resting his palms flat on the counter's smooth surface. "Look, everyone knows that Joseph can be a bit of a prick-"

Molly was unable to stop her snort of laughter and, upon hearing the noise, three heads turned in her direction. "Sorry," she murmured, making her way back to the trio, paperwork in hand.

Sherlock pointed in her direction and gave Mike a "but she does it!" look, to which Mike had an instant response.

" _She_ works with him. You, however, have no actual right to be here and you can't just throw your weight around like you own the place. From time to time, as painful as it might be, you, Sherlock Holmes, are going to have to be _nice_."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and took the files from the woman stood beside him, which then prompted another burst of scolding from Stamford.

"And you can't demand staff members drop everything to accommodate your every whim!" Mike's eyes fell on Molly and she had an inkling the message was also directed at her. "As soon as she's finished whatever demands you've set her, she's taking her lunch break."

With that, Mike straightened up and his gaze swept over the three before him. Offering a quick greeting and farewell to his old friend John, he turned to leave, stopping by the door to ask a question.

"I don't suppose there's much chance of you apologising, is there?"

The lack of response was all the answer Mike needed and he left the lab, the words _thought_ and _so_ floating in the air behind him. A blanket of silence fell over the lab and, given that the detective had the sort of presence that influenced an entire room, his grumpy mood following the telling off meant the silence wasn't entirely comfortable. Molly hoped Joseph chose to avoid the lab for quite a while, otherwise who knew what fireworks might go off. There was also a danger that Joseph might decide to take advantage of Mike's demands, being overly antagonistic, knowing Sherlock would have to be nice.

Sherlock was thoroughly engrossed in the documents she'd given him, so she didn't even entertain the thought if speaking with him. Instead, she stepped closer to John and retrieved the samples requiring analysis, before offering him a drink.

"Coffee, please," he replied.

Molly smiled, before heading to the cafeteria. It wasn't until she opened the door that she realised John had followed.

"He's not going to be much company," the doctor explained.

"Was it really just the toxicology report that started the argument?" she asked, still wondering what exactly had happened between the pair.

"No," John said, with a slight grimace lining his face. "That was the tipping point. It was basically a case of two men far too much alike for their own goods, butting heads for intellectual supremacy. I get the impression they've been like it from the very beginning. Today, Sherlock came in as Joseph was writing up some notes and, Sherlock being Sherlock, he discovered that something was wrong with one of the results. He pointed this out in his typically charming manner, which Joseph didn't take too kindly to and decided to make some snide comments about Sherlock's lack of qualifications."

"Ouch!" It was Molly's turn to grimace. If her colleague wanted to really get under the skin of Sherlock Holmes, bruising his ego was the right way to go about it.

John chuckled. "Yep and it went down as brilliantly as you're thinking."

The couple's laughter reverberated off the walls, as they continued down the corridor.

**0**

The morning had been eventful, but the late afternoon was steeped in mystery. Molly was alone in the cool, quiet morgue, surrounded by the dearly departed and thoroughly engrossed in her current task. She was performing an autopsy on the body of a middle aged woman that had arrived less than an hour ago and, so far, it was routine and unremarkable. Then she came across something that puzzled her exceedingly. It was small and almost went by unnoticed, being discovered only during the second examination of the body.

Readjusting the position of the corpse slightly, Molly had to part the legs of the female in order to get a better look. It was certainly a puzzling discovery and her mind immediately began to whirr with all sorts of questions. Possibly a little disconcerting to admit (and she had yet to do so to _anyone_ ), but this was when the pathologist truly loved her job. She was taken back to that morning and Jim's comment about her being like a detective. Who knew how close to the mark someone she'd only just met could be?

Shaking off any distracting thoughts, Molly refocused on the task at hand-trying to work out what she had just found. There, directly on the right pubic bone, was a small design decorating the skin. At first, she had dismissed it as a simple tattoo, but closer examination proved it was actually carved into the skin. Scarification was one of the latest body modification trends to hit the scene, although the woman wearing the mark didn't strike her as someone to be interested in such a craze.

Quickly fetching the notepad upon which the results of her examination were to be recorded, she started scribbling, her eyes flitting back and forth from the mark to the paper. She wondered at the location of the mark, as it was clearly man-made, rather than a natural blemish. Drawing even closer (whilst trying to ignore how close she was to certain other parts of the female anatomy), Molly then realised that the mark was actually a word.

" _I'm_ …" Molly read aloud and, rather than answer any of her questions, it only added more.

Jotting the latest discovery down, she looked yet again and something rather disturbing registered in her brain. Of course, having a completely random word cut into an intimate part of your flesh was odd in itself, but what was even more bizarre was that Molly wasn't entirely sure it had been carved into the skin whilst the woman was alive. From the clean lines of the lettering and the fact that there was no sign of any healing process, it soon became very apparent that the strange wound was, in fact, performed after death.

Molly paused and, for a long moment, did little more than stare blankly at the mark. She needed a moment to process the information, before reaching for the file that had accompanied the body when it entered the morgue. She looked over all the notes, looking for anything that might hint at why the mark was there, but, after reading through them at least three times, the search proved fruitless.

An unsettling feeling crept over the pathologist. So many questions, with absolutely no answers and suspicion was starting to lead her down an uncomfortable path. Molly wondered if she should alert anyone, but what would anyone do? The woman was a victim of accidental drowning, of which there was no room for any suspicion of foul play, but there had to be _some_ reason why a word of no apparent significance was carved into her leg.

Sherlock popped into Molly's head at that moment, as puzzles were his forte and the body lying on the cold metal table certainly puzzled the pathologist. But, what if it wasn't worth his time? What if it proved to be something completely harmless and he got angry at her for troubling him with a trivial concern? She considered speaking to John first, to get his opinion on the matter, but again worried about overreacting. In the end, Molly decided to simply include her findings in the report and speak to her superior. If he decided it was worth investigating, he'd have to report it to the police.

With a plan set in her mind, Molly went about finishing the post mortem and, although the discovery would linger at the back of her mind for a long time to come, she had no idea just how involved she would end up being.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooooh! A little mystery there to get your minds going. I hope you enjoyed the chapter. When I began, I had no idea what I was doing or where the story might go, but, as I've started to really get into writing this, I'm getting a much better idea for what's going to happen.
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed. If you have any thoughts, criticisms or recommendations, don't hesitate to let me know and I'll update ASAP :)


	7. 7

**Chapter Seven **

Had lasagne any form of consciousness, it would have wondered, sitting innocently on the plate, what exactly it'd done to deserve the abuse received from Molly Hooper's fork. The woman in question mindlessly stabbed, poked and prodded at the food, grumbling to herself about the stupidity of her so-called superiors. She had spent double the warranted amount of time required for post mortems, checking and double checking her facts, in order to present them to her boss. She had made absolutely sure to highlight the bizarre mark adorning the dead woman and she had even offered to show him the findings first hand.

To say it fell on deaf ears wasn't the correct terminology; it had fallen on _uninterested_ ears. They felt that there wasn't enough to trouble the police with just yet and that the design carved into the skin was too vague to actually be considered a word, even though Molly was able to read it perfectly well. The exact words of advice had been: "Let's give it a bit and see if anything else turns up, shall we?"

How bloody condescending could you be? Yes, she may have recently returned from the land of the barmy, but that didn't mean she had to be spoken to like an overexcited toddler! With a (very quiet) huff of annoyance, Molly had (mildly) stormed out of the room, as annoyed with herself, as she was with them. She could have easily stood her ground, kept making her point, but she was still too afraid to draw too much attention to herself. It may have been the pathologist's own paranoia, but she knew how easy it would've been to simply let her go if she became too much of an irritation.

So, there she was, mousy Molly Hooper, savagely harassing the sorry looking plate of food before her and so engrossed in displeasure, that she almost jumped out of her skin at the unexpected bleep from her computer. Looking up at the screen, she suddenly remembered the task she had begun almost two hours before heating up the microwavable gloop. Concentration had not been her strong point recently-which was hardly surprising when tiredness had become as much a part of her daily life as breathing-because work seemed to take over her life. Yes, it had proven to fulfil its purpose, because she'd wanted something to occupy her mind, but she'd never expected the life of St Bart's to take over her thoughts so completely at home as well.

Pushing her plate aside, Molly pulled her laptop a little closer, to read the comment that had been posted on the latest entry of her newly created blog. Yes, Molly Hooper had finally given in to her psychiatrist and started a blog. After all, it appeared to be doing wonders for John and whilst hers may not have been anywhere near as interesting as his, the pathologist thought it was worth a try. The design was girly, pink and horrendously generic, but it was the first template she'd found. She was only on her second entry, with the first being a hideous attempt at an introduction, but she didn't have enough passion for the project to bother deleting it.

The subject of her second post detailed a random day at work. Not necessarily the one she had just had, but it alluded a little to what she did for a living and even mentioned Sherlock. No great detail was involved, but she felt the extraordinary bizarreness of their first meeting could provide a little entertaining reading for whoever might accidentally stumble across her prescribed therapy. The only problem was that Molly hadn't actually planned on naming anyone and the comment directly beneath the post was by the blog's author, berating her own stupidity.

With the second comment that had just appeared, Molly looked at the name, before reading the actual content of the message. A frown creased her forehead, when her mind connected those three simple letters.

J-I-M.

 _Jim_? Who the Hell was Jim? Rather than puzzle further, she decided to read whatever Jim had written.

" **Hi, sorry, are you the lady who works in the morgue? The one with the nose?"**

The identity of the messenger suddenly dawned on her. It was Jim, _the_ Jim, the guy from I.T! What was he doing commenting on her blog? How did he even find it? Was he stalking her? Wait, what was wrong with her _nose_?!

Her fingers flew over the keyboard of their own accord, furiously typing a reply.

" **Who are you?"**

It was a silly question, but she wanted to make absolutely certain it was the same Jim she spoke to.

The reply was instantaneous. Christ, he was a fast typist!

" **Sorry! I work in the IT dept."**

So, it was the right Jim. What now? Should she say something back? It was all too tempting just to slam the laptop lid shut and forget all about it. But what if she saw him at work? She was already awkward enough in social situations, without the pressure of having ignored him on her blog hanging over their next meeting.

Another bleep interrupted her panic and she saw that they were clearly on the same wavelength. It was a little disconcerting in all honesty.

" **Are you all right?"** he queried. **"You've gone quiet."**

 _Shit_! Molly mentally screamed. _WhatshouldIdo?WhatshouldIdo?WhatshouldIdo?_

Molly flailed internally, frantically trying to work out some sort of response. On their first meeting, Jim had already attempted to invite her out and she was absolutely petrified that he might do so again. Unfortunately, there was no Sherlock emergency to interrupt a second time. In the end, there was only one response she could come up with.

" **What's wrong with my nose?"**

Jim must have been slightly taken aback, because his next reply was a little slower to arrive than the previous ones.

" **Nothing. It's a cute nose. I hope you don't mind me saying."**

She did, actually. Her alarm increased several notches.

" **I'm here all night,"** he continued. **"So I need more coffee."**

Was that his way of saying goodbye, or, as feared, was he hinting at a date? She sincerely hoped not. Perhaps he wasn't even interested in her that way? Disregarding the nose comment (denial was always a useful tool to avoid panic attacks), he could simply want to just reach out to some of the staff members in order to make new friends. If she was very lucky, he might even be one of those love rat types, who tried it on with all sorts of girls until one said yes. She hoped the latter was true. She wondered if she was the only woman in history to hope a member of the opposite sex lived up to one of his gender's more derogatory stereotypes.

Molly's ever-helpful subconscious was about to offer reasons why her denial was futile, but she slammed the door shut on that part of her brain. It wouldn't be helpful. Knowing she'd have to respond eventually, even if only to discover whether he'd actually left his computer yet or not, a reply was quickly given.

" **Okay."**

Jim's next comment made all form of denial utterly redundant.

" **Do you like coffee?"**

Molly's response went from DEFCON 5 to 1 at a stratospheric rate. He _still_ wanted coffee and _she_ wanted nothing more than to disappear under her duvet and never venture outside again. Of all the staff members to ask out, why did he have to pick _her_? Yes, there weren't very many females littering the hospital halls, but surely there were some in the IT department?

During their last meeting, she had actually began entertaining the idea of getting to know him a little better, purely because of his apparent interest in her profession. However, now that the moment had actually arrived, she became a metaphorical hedgehog about to be run over by a car, curling into a ball to avoid the oncoming vehicle, rather than actually dealing with the problem.

Denial was more persistent than anticipated, because she still felt a glimmer of hope within her that he may just be after something platonic. Could that be possible? Molly let out a long groan of exhaustion. She really wasn't in a position to deal with any of it at that moment in time. Unfortunately, avoidance of the problem wasn't an option. She had enough trouble battling demons and nightmares in her own home; she wasn't about to let her workplace become a stress point as well.

In the end, there would be nothing else for it, but to be completely honest. She could meet up with Jim, have a coffee, see what sort of person he was really like and, there was every possibility he would lose interest. After all, she wasn't a very interesting person.

Feeling like Jason about to tackle the Argonauts, Molly took several deep breaths, barely able to hear the clicking of the keyboard above the furious beating of her heart.

 _It'll be fine, Molly,_ she told herself. _Stop worrying!_

" **Yes."**

Quite a bit of time must have passed between his comment and her response, because it took a while for him to post again. She was about to think he had given up, when the melodious beep signalled another comment.

" **Would you like to meet for coffee?"**

Molly actually found her fingers trembling as she pressed each lettered button. Could the prospect of human interaction really cause someone this much distress? She'd never felt like this around John, even in the very beginning, when their coffee dates had first been proposed. Perhaps it was because she knew there was nothing implied in the suggestion. She was tempted to ask him if he'd want to come along as well, but knew it would seem a bit weird for all involved. Molly was alone this time.

" **Erm…okay."**

When the corners of Molly's eyes began to feel moist, a sense of ridiculousness overwhelmed her and she wanted to slap herself for being so silly. Why was she crying over this? She had Doctor Thompson's phone number for emergencies, but didn't know if this would count as one.

" **Are you free now?"**

Now? Jim certainly didn't waste time. Glancing at the digital clock in the corner of the laptop's screen, she saw that it was almost eight o' clock. His earlier message claimed that he was working all night, meaning he must have already been at the hospital. Was he asking her to have coffee with him at work? He must not have realised that she was unable to do night shifts for the moment. Well, at least she had a way out for the time being and a surge of relief flooded her veins. Then again, what was the point in delaying the ordeal? She winced at her choice of wording; calling it an ordeal wasn't very fair to Jim.

" **I'm not working tonight, sorry."** _Deep breath. Keep calm. Here we go._ **"But how about tomorrow?"**

**0**

"Alright, Molly?"

Just the sound of John Watson's relaxed and welcoming voice was enough to spread a wide smile across Molly's face. After a very stressful evening and sleepless night, a simple, harmless chat with John was exactly what the doctor ordered (no pun intended). Sherlock had entered the lab first, as usual, but gave no welcome, most likely because he didn't require anything. That was fine with her, as she had a lot to do anyway.

John stood beside the pathologist and she removed her safety goggles to properly say hello. Her friend spied the item resting in the large silver bowl she had just carried to the table.

"What's for breakfast?" he quipped and she chuckled in reply.

"Dissected brain."

John's eyes widened a little at her answer, before clicking his tongue. "I'll have mine well done, thanks."

Molly smiled, before removing the blue plastic gloves covering her hands, supremely grateful for the visitors' arrival. She had been assigned the glorious task of dissecting the brain and the intricate, delicate work would do nothing for her headache. Her eyes were also sore from all the crying she'd done the previous night and she'd usually slather on the concealer in order to hide the puffy bags, but hadn't the energy that morning to do so. All Molly could do was hope the generous amount of eyedrops she'd used at the very start of her shift would do the trick. It was for the best that the dissection be left for later in the day.

The lack of enthusiasm from the mousy blonde didn't go unnoticed by the doctor. With a quick glance over at an already engrossed Sherlock, John turned back to Molly and lowered his voice a little.

"Bad night?" he asked.

Molly chewed the inside of her cheek and nodded her head.

"Want to talk?" John nudged her arm gently with his elbow.

Molly considered his offer and, anyone else would have been brushed off with a hasty "I'm fine." John's brand of sympathy, however, was far more Molly's cup of tea. For a start, he had gone through a similar experience, meaning he really could understand what she was going through and wasn't the type to offer advice unless he really thought it could help. He also wouldn't treat her like a total nutbag when admitting the cause for her latest minor breakdown.

"It's all a bit silly, really," she whispered.

It really was and anyone else would have agreed with her. Spending an entire night in emotional turmoil over a cup of coffee only served to show just how mentally unstable she still was and Molly easily ranked it as one of her worst nights since being discharged.

"Not to you," he replied. "But don't discuss it if you don't feel up to it."

"Someone asked me out for coffee," she explained, her gaze locking on the brain before her, as she started fiddling absently with the plastic goggles.

John nodded. Although unaware of just how severe her issues with socialising were, he understood what a momentous thing that would have been for her. "And what did you do?"

"I…I said yes."

Had Molly been looking in John's direction, she may have seen a subtle shift in the expression arranging his features. It was small, with no guarantee that she would have understood it anyway and only lasted a matter of seconds.

"Well, that's a pretty big step," he remarked.

"It is," she agreed, biting her bottom lip. "Scared the Hell out of me though," she finished, letting out a breathy laugh. She still was terrified, in all honesty.

"Well, a date is never an easy occasion," John said. "Even for the sanest of people."

"Thing is," Molly continued. "I'm afraid he wants something I can't give."

John's torso shifted a little, so that he was fully facing her. "You don't have to do anything you don't want to," he reassured.

"I know." She released the right half of her bottom lip, which was now a little swollen from all the nervous chewing.

The small distance between the pair was closed by the doctor. They had known each other almost eight months now and John was the most aware of her past, yet he still only knew half the story and it had been a long time since he saw her as distraught as she currently looked.

"If you're really that worried, I can go with you," he offered. "I can make it look like I just happened to be wherever you and he are meeting."

Molly's gaze finally left the silver bowl, to fall in John's direction. If only he had known that she'd considered that very option herself. And he managed to come up with a solution that no longer made it seem weird. The gratitude she felt for his thoughtfulness radiated in the smile she gave him and, had she not been so emotional crippled by her past, she would have been able to hug him.

For a long moment, the pair just looked at one another, each wearing a small smile caused by the other and Molly started musing once again about the difference between John and almost everyone else in her life. She wondered what it was about him that calmed her so much and kept her so relaxed. He didn't ignite her with any of the anxieties that instantly seized her mind and body the moment others caused when they got too close. It was hard for her to stand closely beside anyone and she often found rides on the Tube an ordeal. Having so many people cramped into one small space was never a pleasant experience. An elbow nudge by anyone else would have sent her palms sweaty and her heart racing for all the wrong reasons, yet, from John, it was a comforting gesture of camaraderie. John Watson was becoming as much of an enigma to Molly Hooper as the tall, dark haired detective sat quietly in the corner, momentarily forgotten by the pair. That in itself was quite a momentous occasion, by the standards of anyone acquainted with Sherlock Holmes.

A beeping interrupted the quiet and Molly looked at the pager tucked into the pocket of her white coat. Pulling it out and reading the short message, she was offered a second delay to the brain awaiting her examination.

"I'm sorry," she apologised. "A body's just come in. I've got to go."

"Alright," John said, offering a warm smile. "I'll see you later."

"That'll depend on the state of the body," she remarked, quickly glancing over in Sherlock's direction, before deciding against offering him any sort of farewell. It would have fallen on deaf ears anyway. She said goodbye to John and, as she started to walk away, he waved his mobile phone. Molly knew it was a reminder that, should she need to continue their little heart to heart, all she had to do was call.

With a last smile of thanks, Molly strode through the double doors, feeling noticeably more relaxed than when she had arrived for work that morning.

**0**

The pallid, naked corpse displayed on the steel table awaited inspection patiently, as the woman stood beside it, pulling on a fresh set of plastic gloves and reading through the notes accompanying the body.

George Goodman, 52, Caucasian, with a history of heart troubles. Died of a heart attack. So far, so routine, even if the man was a little young to have suffered such a condition. Molly ran a quick mental checklist through all the items needed for the examination, before wheeling the small trolley containing the instruments closer to her.

The autopsy proved to be as simple and ordinary as expected, until the investigation reached Goodman's inner left thigh. For the second time in as many days, Molly was left perplexed and disconcerted. In that moment, everything else cluttering the pathologist's brain disappeared. Every thought or concern melted away in the face of what stared back up at her. Molly the frightened, socially awkward girl was stripped away, to reveal Molly the detective.

She moved closer, but familiarity bathed the odd markings carved into the ashen flesh. The letters were different this time around and the word was longer; two and a half times longer, to be precise, but everything else, from the position of the markings, to the very font of the lettering was exactly the same. She reached for the magnifying glass and used it in order to make reading of the carving easier.

" _Going…_ "

That made about as much sense as a paper bottle to Molly, but she wrote it down in her notes, just as she had with the previous body. Mystifying, for sure, but she was now absolutely certain that something far more sinister than a simple scarification trend was happening. Like the word _I'm_ being carved into the skin covering a woman's pubic bone, the word carved into this man raised innumerate questions and answered were needed.

Although the post mortem was only less than halfway through, Molly abandoned it for the moment and decided to do a comparison between the two bodies. That didn't mean that the autopsy was to be forgotten about-Molly was nothing if not professional and thorough-but she knew she'd be unable to properly focus on the task if she didn't get this one out of the way first.

There was no need for her to search for report on the middle aged woman, as the findings were still fresh in her mind and she mentally sifted through them to find similarities.

Two victims.

One male. One female.

Both Caucasian.

Both middle-aged.

Both had words carved into the skin of the pubic bone.

Carvings done after death.

Female died of drowning. Male died of a heart attack.

Neither death considered suspicious.

Molly was planning to change that. Why would someone draw those words on a couple of dead bodies? Neither of the words were particularly important or significant choices from the English language. "I'm" and "going". She started saying the words aloud, trying to search for the meaning behind them and, for all the adrenaline and intrigue swimming through her at that moment, the effects of fatigue were proven in how long it took her to realise how the two words fit together.

"I'm going..?" Molly had no idea if they were supposed to be read as a question, but her confusion turned them into one.

 _I'm Going._ What did that mean? Who was going? Going where? Was it a message? If so, who was the message for and how was anyone supposed to figure it out?

There was one who probably could, or have a bloody good go at it, at least and he happened to be in the very same building at the very same moment. Just as before, she wanted to call Sherlock, but the same reservations held her back. He could be on an extremely important case at the moment and get angry at any form of distraction. Then again, this might just be the sort of thing to tantalise his over-analytical and under-worked mind. She worried about her boss getting angry if she went over their heads and involved the police. It wasn't, strictly speaking, her place to inform the police of suspicious goings on; she was simply there to determine cause of death.

Well, cause of death had certainly been determined, but the motive behind them definitely hadn't. After many more minutes of allowing her mind to spin in circles, she decided to be brave once more and, pulling off one of her gloves, took her phone out of her pocket and dialled, before placing it against her ear.

"You alright?" John asked, answering on the second ring.

"Yeah," she replied. "Um, listen. Are you two on a case at the moment?"

"Just started one, actually. Why?"

Molly's hopes were dashed and her shoulders slumped disappointedly. "Um…if you're already working on something, it doesn't matter."

She'd have to go through the usual channels, it seemed. She just had to pray they would be more open to her suspicions second time around. Surely there was enough evidence to bring it to the attention of Scotland Yard, wasn't there? For all her forensic and medical knowledge, Molly sadly knew little about legal proceedings.

"What is it?" John queried, not ready to let the subject go now that she had brought it up.

"Well…I don't really know. It could be nothing, but…oh…he'll be annoyed if it's nothing!"

"It's got to be _something_ if you're considering getting Sherlock's opinion," he insisted. "Tell you what, How about I come down and have a look and I'll let you know if he'll be interested?"

Molly chewed the inside of her cheek for a moment, considering. John was full of good ideas, it seemed. Exhaling quietly, she agreed and hung up. John arrived a few minutes later and strode over to her in his quick, militaristic style. She had to admit she enjoyed watching him walk sometimes, just to see someone with such impressive posture amongst all the slouchers of London. He managed to hold authority that other men sharing his stature struggled to achieve.

Molly was still beside the body of George Goodman when John entered the morgue and he walked around the table to stand beside her. She immediately began explaining to him what had happened, firstly with the middle-aged woman, before offering to show him the mark on the body in front of them. She was grateful for his medical background, because, not only did he not flinch at the location of the markings (well, not much, anyway), but he also immediately saw that they were carved into the body _after_ death and not before.

The speed with which it took John to share her suspicions was somewhat alarming, but also a confirmation that she had done the right thing. Something was definitely wrong. So wrong, in fact, that the doctor beside her didn't hesitate to whip out his phone and make a call.

"Sherlock," he said, quietly. "I think you should come and see this."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOOH, more mystery! Once again, I'm not exactly sure what'll happen with this bit of plot, but I'm sure I'll figure it out somehow. I hope you all enjoyed the chapter and I'll have another update ready soon :)


	8. 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I'm a wonderful person, I've given two updates in one go. Hope you all enjoy :)

** Chapter Eight **

Watching Sherlock and John work together was like gazing at the sun and the moon at the same time. Both were polar opposites, yet each was required for the function of the other. It was surprising the amount of comparisons Molly could draw between the pair and two of the most important aspects of the solar system to Earth's survival.

Sherlock was cold and pale, like the surface of the rock that decorated the night sky. John, however, exuded warmth and affability and you always felt safer, more secure with him around. The sun was always at its most visible during the busiest time of the day, welcoming company and enjoying it, unlike the moon, which chose to wait until as few people were around as possible. John was slower than his companion, preferring to take his time, echoing the stillness of the great gas giant and, because of this, he became the anchor the moon required in order to focus. Sherlock was the one who raced here, there and everywhere, desperate to crack the case, like the satellite flying around the Earth at almost two and a half thousand miles per hour.

You could never reach out and touch the moon; that was a privilege reserved for a very select few and they were the ones who truly saw the cracks and blemishes distance hidden from everyone else. The effects of the sun, however, could be felt immediately, with the warmth seeping in the moment its light fell upon a surface. But there was a deception at play. Like the moon, the sun was also untouchable, even though it tried to prove otherwise. It was cheerful and inviting, but there was no way of getting close, of touching the surface without being burnt. The sun was an even bigger enigma than the moon, its secrets hidden beneath the warmth it projected. Of course, there would be another select band of individuals who were able to uncover some of those secrets, but they were harder to find, because nobody knew the secrets were there to begin with; too busy staring at the silvery moon.

Molly wanted to know more about the retired army doctor, because she only really knew the snippets of information he had allowed her to. It may have been hypocritical, given her reluctance to reveal her own past, but she would be lying if she said she wasn't intrigued to know what had caused John's PTSD, or why he was able to abide Sherlock, when so many others couldn't stand the sight of the consultant detective. The biggest query of all, though, was why, when the sun touched _her_ , no burning was ever involved.

It was starting to happen more frequently, physical contact between her and John. An elbow nudge here, a reassuring squeeze of the shoulder there and Molly couldn't believe it when she actually found herself _wanting_ them to happen. That was a scary prospect in itself, but, unlike the coffee date due later that day, the fear wasn't a crippling one. It didn't keep her up at night, or make her feel like a pathetic mental wreck of a person. Perhaps fear was the wrong choice of word to describe the swirling inside her stomach whenever those moments with John occurred. Perhaps a better name would be… _excit-_

Molly immediately spun her brain around, in search of the focus required for the task at hand. Even though the dynamic duo was currently pouring through the records of George Goodman and Elsie Martin, she still had that brain to dissect and it was proving difficult to pay attention. She liked to think of it as proof of her dedication to the job that she successfully completed the task.

Once the organ had been appropriately stored away, Molly washed her hands thoroughly in the nearby sink. She may have been wearing gloves, but it was far better to be safe than sorry and, if she was being honest, Molly would've felt a bit grubby otherwise. The moment the pathologist settled herself on a stool to write up a neater version of the scribbled notes made during the dissection, the first request of the day came from Mr Sherlock Holmes.

"Molly," he summoned, his eyes not moving from the papers scattered in front of him.

Releasing her grip of the pen, she looked over at Sherlock. "Yes?"

"Who has access to the staff records in this hospital?" he asked.

"Um, that would be Derek Parsons," she replied.

"You just going to waltz in and demand them?" John, as ever, chimed in, the voice of reason; and, of course, the law.

"Yep," the curly haired man affirmed, his lips smacking together to emphasise the last letter of the word.

John rolled his eyes and returned to the papers before him, until the sound of footsteps and the gentle rustle of fabric were heard. "What are you doing?" he asked his comrade, who was in the process of sorting out the collar of his long coat.

"I thought we had already clarified my actions," Sherlock remarked, reaching for his scarf.

John spun in his seat and stared in astonishment. "Clearly not, because I'm asking."

"I'm getting the staff records," Sherlock elucidated.

"Seriously?" John demanded, jumping off his own stool. "You know I was joking about waltzing in there, yeah?"

" _You_ may have been," the now fully wrapped up detective said. "But I wasn't."

"Wait, you can't just demand them, Sherlock. They're private records!" Despite his words, John was following his companion towards the door. "You need a warrant."

Molly panicked internally. _Oh, God_ , she thought. _He's actually going to do it!_

Leaping out of her chair, Molly rushed over to the pair.

"Wait!" she called. "You can't."

For probably the first time since their introduction, Sherlock looked at Molly Hooper. Of course, his eyes had glanced in her general direction many a time, but there had never been any real need for him to pay proper attention to her before. This was also the first time she made any demand of him, which surprised her as much as it probably did him.

"Why not?" Sherlock asked, his icy blue eyes studying her intently. "If I recall correctly, it was you who brought this matter to my attention."

"Because…" she began, before biting her lip. She wasn't sure how to explain herself and feared incurring his ire by wasting his time. With a sigh and her heart beating furiously, she explained, the words tumbling out of her mouth at an extraordinary rate. "Look…when I first discovered the mark on Elsie, I took my findings to my superiors, but they dismissed my concerns, saying there wasn't enough evidence to inform the police. They needed more. Well, that's what George Goodman is, more evidence, but I haven't even told them about his marking yet and they'll be furious if they find out I went over their heads, straight to you and God knows what they'll-"

"Molly!" John placed a gently restraining hand on each of her arms. "Molly, calm down."

Molly began biting her lip again, as her eyes swivelled to meet John's.

"It's alright," he assured. "We'll make sure they don't think you're involved. We don't even have to mention you." He turned to look at his tall companion. "Do we, Sherlock?"

For a long moment, the detective did nothing more than stare back at the doctor and it was clear he disliked the notion. However, it was also clear that he wanted nothing more than to crack the case and knew acquiescence would provide the easiest route to do so.

With a dramatic roll of the eyes, Sherlock gave in. "Alright," he sighed, before muttering to himself. "Heaven forbid we should expose their incompetence!"

John's gaze returned to the (slightly) placated pathologist. "Alright?" he asked.

Molly, still worrying her bottom lip, nodded and, suddenly aware of the body heat radiating from John's hands against her arms, felt her cheeks flush with colour. She didn't know whether to move or to remain still. Again, she was assaulted by the confusion that always arose whenever he touched her. Why didn't it make her feel twitchy and uncomfortable, the way others did? Why didn't she experience the typical urge to run and hide? Why was John Watson so very different to everyone else?

Before she could think any further on the subject, the physical contact ceased and, with a last reassurance that she wouldn't be named, Molly Hooper was left alone in the lab, wondering if contacting the pair was, in fact, a mistake.

**0**

By the time her lunch break arrived, Molly was tempted to simply not bother turning up for her coffee date. She still hadn't heard anything from Sherlock and John and, the closer lunchtime arrived, the more frazzled her nerves became. However much she wanted to avoid the stress of meeting Jim, she knew she'd ultimately have to go through with it. Whatever personal crises she was going through, it wasn't fair to take her anxiety out on him.

Instead, Molly settled herself at a table nearest a window. Should the conversation run dry (which was a strong possibility, given her anxiety about the rendezvous), there was always hope for the outside world providing stimulation or topics. She'd chosen to forgo any food, because her stomach wouldn't settle enough to even consider digestion, instead settling for a cup of hot coffee that had no plans to cool down in a hurry.

To pass the time, Molly let her gaze wander out the window and she soon became so lost in the task that, when a figure blocked her view, she almost jumped out of her skin and narrowly avoided wearing the hot beverage.

"Woah, easy!" Jim chuckled, holding his hands out in pacification, before taking the seat opposite her.

"S-sorry," she mumbled, feeling a bit silly at her reaction. It wasn't her fault, though, she tried to reason; his approach had certainly been quiet. That unnerved the pathologist just a little, but she refused to focus on it until she was no longer in the presence of Jim from IT.

The computer buff settled down, placing his own cup of coffee and a sandwich wrapped in cling film on the table before him. Still didn't trust canteen food, it seemed. Molly watched him and his movements, as he unwrapped the sandwich, remaining silent throughout. She had spent an entire evening, night and morning fretting about this "date" and, now that it was here, she could feel her heart preparing itself to leap out of her chest. She had no idea what would happen, how it would go and absolutely no fucking clue what to say. Thankfully, Jim was happy to oblige and started the ball rolling.

"So, either you've taken my advice about the food, or you're just not hungry," he remarked, nodding at the empty space beside her drink. "Whatever the reason, can't say it's a bad decision."

And, just like that, the tension evaporated.

What Molly Hooper had anticipated being the most awkward day of her last few months, ended up becoming a welcome break from the stressful reality of life, full of (eventually) easy talk and soft laughter. Topics flowed quickly from one into the next and neither divulged anything too personal. He discovered that his companion hated cheesecake and she learnt that Jim had never seen a single episode of Glee, which was often the programme of choice in the Hooper household. Bright colourful and easy to follow, it allowed the pathologist to momentarily forget the outside world and she would forever be grateful to Murphy, Falchuck and Brennan for their creation. A spark of terror ignited when he suggested she introduce him to the show, but she managed to find some kind of response that was non-committal, yet wouldn't ruin the tone of the rest of the lunch hour.

So far, Jim had offered no hints towards a…

…a…

…towards…

God! Molly couldn't even bring herself to think the words. He hadn't hinted towards wanting anything more than… _friendship_ and she desperately hoped he wouldn't ruin things by changing that. She really hoped he didn't; she was currently enjoying her lunch break with him and, if things could remain this way, she'd be willing to do it again.

When Molly next looked up at the clock hanging near the ceiling of the wall beside them, she realised she only had a few minutes left to get back to the lab.

"Wow," Jim remarked. "Time flies when you're having fun, eh?" He threw a wink her way and it was clear his former awkward shyness had all but disappeared.

Molly nodded in genuine agreement, offering a small smile in return, as she got to her feet. Her companion mirrored her actions, screwing up the cling film in his left palm, ready to throw it in the bin. For a moment, the pair just stood opposing one another, neither knowing how to respond to the other at the end of their "date".

"Well," Jim began. "I dunno about you, but I enjoyed this lunch break."

"Me too," she concurred and the surprise was evident in her voice, which made her grimace in apology.

The dark haired man chuckled. "I'm just glad it's a _pleasant_ surprise."

"N-no, I didn't…I don't mean…" Molly could feel her cheeks start to burn and she wanted the ground to swallow her up. Would she _ever_ learn to be competent in social situations?

Her embarrassment served only to increase his mirth. "We'll do this again, yeah?" he asked.

Molly couldn't speak, but nodded once again, as her eyes fell to the floor. With the dip of her head, a few strands of hair fell in front of her face and she saw the shadow of a hand reach forward. As the flash of skin flew past her eyes, she immediately jerked away, a flare of panic crossing her features.

The mood of the afternoon drastically plummeted. There was no way to brush off what had just happened. She'd near enough leapt away from Jim's touch, like a mouse being approached by a hungry cat. A mixture of irritation, confusion and frustration battled with one another and she felt the familiar sickly feeling of alarm swimming in the depths of her stomach. What would he say about her reaction? Or, would he simply ignore it and conveniently forget to ever call her again?

Just when Molly had been feeling good about her meeting with Jim, she now wished she'd never bothered. Her face flushed to an even brighter shade of scarlet and the corners of her eyes began to feel moist from the tears of shame just waiting to stain her face. There were many times when Molly Hooper hated herself and that very moment, standing in the middle of St. Bart's hospital canteen was no exception.

She was just seconds away from bolting from the awkward situation, when Jim Mortimer surprised her more than she had ever believed possible.

"Same time tomorrow?"

Molly's eyes flew up to meet his and her jaw hung open. "W-what..?"

Jim's laughter rang through the canteen. "Coffee? Tomorrow?"

It took far longer than it should have for a reasonably intelligent woman to understand the words spoken in her native language. If she had been a fly on the wall, Molly might have giggled at the gormless expression on her face, as she tried to process Jim's request.

Eventually, the cogs of the pathologist's mind started functioning once more and she managed some semblance of a reply. If memory served correctly, it may have been something along the lines of a yes, but she couldn't really remember afterwards.

The pair walked towards the exit of the canteen together and Jim said goodbye, before promising to contact her later that day. Molly didn't actually reply with words, but she managed to force a smile and nod, before they separated. Even though Jim had been gracious about the "incident" just moments before, she couldn't help but feel rotten about the sour note their relatively good afternoon had ended on.

It was as Molly reached the halfway point of the corridor leading to the laboratory that the tears finally broke through. Her vision wobbled, as the moisture gathered along her lashes, before the droplets of water ran quickly down her flushed cheeks. A broken sob broke through the air and she immediately clapped a hand over her mouth, before her footsteps faltered and she leaned back against the wall.

She needed to get away and knew there was a ladies' at the end of the hallway, near the entrance to the lab, so bolted for it, pushing the door open with her free hand. There was no sign of anyone in the other cubicles, so she allowed herself a moment to break down, before having to brave the room more than likely containing the most observant man in the entire world. If she could dispel the majority of the emotion now, there would be less to suffer later on. The tears continued to fall, as her palm remained tightly fixed over her mouth, fighting the urge to take deep intakes of breath through her nose. That would be noisy and, even if there was nobody around to hear, she dreaded breaking the beloved silence with cries of misery.

Time passed, but the dejected young woman failed to keep track of it. A time limit would have only increased her distress and, as leaving the toilets before properly composed was an impossibility, there was no point in looking at her watch. In fact, it took the pathologist almost twenty minutes to start inhaling normally again, without her breath hitching each time she did. Then a further five minutes passed, as Molly let the tears dry up, before deciding to head for the sink.

Molly learnt long ago how to minimise the physical effects of crying and she had been careful not to rub away the tears as they'd fallen; that would have only made her eyes red and puffy. Pulling out a couple of the paper towels from the holder beside her, she held them beneath the cold tap, before gently dabbing them around her eyes, as well as her reddened cheeks. She then repeated the process with dry towels, applying only enough pressure to mop up the dampness. Then she examined the rest of her appearance, choosing to quickly redo her ponytail, before taking several deep breaths.

Mentally steeling herself, she finally felt ready to return to the lab and the faint hope that she might even find it empty bubbled in her stomach. She rarely possessed such luck, though.

Exiting the toilets, that hope was immediately dashed, as she almost collided with none other than John Watson. The double doors which lead into the lab were still swinging shut behind him and the metallic clinking of coins hitting the floor rang across the corridor.

"Oh!" Molly cried, caught completely by surprise.

The reply from John, equally thrown by the collision, was in very much the same vein as hers.

"John!" she said, seemingly also surprised by the identity of her collidee. "I-I-I'm so sorry-"

Molly immediately bent down to start picking up the change that had been knocked from his hands. John followed suit, before trying to assuage the brunette's need to repeat her apologies. Unfortunately, it fell on deaf ears, because she was still saying sorry when they both stood upright once again.

"Molly," John eventually warned. "Seven "sorries" is more than enough."

"Sorry," she said automatically, before realising her mistake, which only made her want to say sorry again.

 _For the love of God,_ she mentally screamed. _Stop bloody apologising!_

John shoved the cash back into the right front pocket of his jeans, before finally facing the obviously flustered Molly properly. He was aware of the lunch date with Jim and, having voiced her concerns about the date to the doctor, it was in his nature to discover how she was faring afterwards. It was a very rare occasion when Molly Hooper wished John Watson was more of a selfish bastard.

"You alright?" he asked. "How did it go?"

Molly tried so very hard, she _really, really_ did. She thought she had allowed herself enough time to get over the unfortunate ending to her lunch with Jim, but, she should have known better. After all, it wasn't first time Molly had had an emotional meltdown.

"It was…fine," she attempted to lie, or half lie.

The young woman should have known better than to try deceiving a former soldier.

"Really?" he asked softly.

It was absolutely bloody typical that, no matter how well you held yourself together, as soon as someone asked if you are okay, you fell to pieces. That was exactly what happened to Molly. The massive build up of anticipation throughout the day, the shameful way things had ended with Jim, as well as enduring multiple nights without decent sleep were more than enough to crash through the mask of normality she tried to wear. The concern radiating from John's indigo eyes, however, meant her efforts were thwarted before they had even begun.

The emotions still not fully buried came rushing to the surface and her eyes welled up with tears once again. Molly hid her face behind her hands and turned away, ready to retreat down the corridor, but John was having none of it. Clasping her elbow, he gently spun her torso to face him again and rephrased his earlier question.

"What happened?" he asked.

Molly just shook her head, desperate to keep the sobs locked away in her throat. She didn't want to cry in front of John, she really didn't. He already knew she wasn't right in the head, but to break down in front of him, to regress when he seemed to only be getting better increased her sense of shame and she wanted nothing more than to hide, to find a small, quiet, dark corner of the world and privately wallow in her own wretchedness.

John had other ideas, it seemed, because the firmness of his grip on her bicep increased a little and Molly felt her body being delicately propelled forward, until the backs of her hands, still concealing her face, brushed against cotton. It wasn't until she felt careful pressure applied against her back that she realised she was enclosed in John's arms and, the moment the realisation hit, an internal battle began. On the one hand, Molly wanted nothing more than to melt into the embrace and accept the comfort being offered; on the other, she was waiting for the aversion to rear its ugly, misshapen head and scream at her for being stupid enough to allow intimate physical contact with another human being, especially of the male variety.

The aversion never came and that was when Molly, for the first time in almost five years, finally let the façade drop. Her shoulders began to shake, as the sobs finally fell from her lips and the tears seeped through the spaces between her fingers. Her crying was muffled by his chest, but it still sounded deafening to her ears. It had been so long since she'd properly allowed herself to do something as simple as cry, but it came as an enormous relief to finally do so. It was like an admission of a terrible secret that had been forever building inside; she wasn't fine, she wasn't okay and she doubted she ever really would be.

A gentle swaying motion began and she realised that her friend was shifting their weight from foot to foot. It was soothing and a whim even more terrifying that being held by him entered her brain. Removing her palms from her face, she hesitantly reached with trembling fingers for the fabric of his shirt, before clasping it and burying her face in his shoulder. Molly knew she'd only feel guilty about ruining his clothing with her weeping later, but, for the moment, now that she had accepted John's compassion, she was desperate to cling to it.

The pair stood together, without either measuring the seconds ticking by. Throughout it all, John hadn't said a word and she was immeasurably grateful for his silence. She didn't need words of reassurance and empty promises cooed into her ears. All she needed at that moment was release.

Eventually, the sobs subsided and the tears dried, but John didn't loosen his grip and Molly didn't push him away. More seconds passed and the pair remained exactly where they were, holding one another and the pathologist couldn't remember ever having felt so calm, being enveloped by the warm security she had always associated with the man.

The silence was broken by the gentle whisper of John's voice, as his palm moved up and down her shoulder blades.

"Did that help?" he queried.

Unable to speak just yet, Molly settled for a nod, before finally releasing his shirt and creating a little space between them. This time, there was no need for concealment, so Molly wiped the residue away from her eyes and cheeks, sniffing as she did. One of John's arms fell away, leaving the other to remain around her shoulders.

"Sorry," she mumbled, her eyes directed towards the dark stain decorating the front of his shirt.

"It'll dry," he replied. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Molly considered his proposal for a moment, before nodding once more. After glancing over his shoulder at the lab entrance behind them, John's feet started moving forward, the comforting arm around her guiding her along with him.

"I was on my way to grab a couple of coffees," he explained. "Want one?"

"Okay," she answered, her voice weak and wavering from the exertion of her spent emotions.

Molly's fingers twiddled relentlessly, as they made their way back to the canteen. It wasn't until John had actually purchased the three drinks that either actually spoke.

"So, just how badly did it go?" he asked, after handing Molly her drink.

She curled her fingers around the disposable cup, allowing the heat to sink into her skin.

"It wasn't actually that bad," she explained, her cheeks colouring, as foolishness for her recent outburst set in. "Nowhere near as awkward or uncomfortable as I'd imagined."

John inclined his head in understanding, but she knew he was waiting to hear the cause for her upset. This was a big moment for Molly, as she'd never actually admitted her trepidation towards physical contact. It had never really been an issue for her around John.

"It…it was at the end, just as we were getting ready to leave," she began. "I'm not even sure what happened. I just saw his hand reaching towards me and I flinched."

"Flinched?" he parroted and Molly could tell he didn't understand what the big deal was.

"Yeah," she confirmed. "It wasn't just a little flinch, though. More like a giant leap backwards. To say it made things awkward is an understatement."

"What did Jim do?"

Molly tried not to let the memories become too vivid in her mind, as she mentally ran through the lunch break. "Well…nothing, really," she admitted and a trickle of doubt set in, as she wondered if she'd overreacted to the whole ordeal. Had it really been as bad or awkward as she felt? Or, was her paranoia blowing everything out of proportion? "He actually asked when we'd next see each other." The disbelief filtered into her tone and she removed her eyes from the coffee cup, to see John studying her intently. Her brows knitted in question.

"It's an issue for you, isn't it?" he observed. "Physical contact, I mean."

Molly had no reply, as shock froze her thoughts and tongue. He clearly spent too much time with Sherlock.

"I hope I didn't make things worse for you just now," he said and Molly's frown only deepened.

"What do you mean?" she queried.

"The hug," John elaborated and she felt like a complete moron for being so forgetful, but there wasn't time to dwell, because she felt an immediate need to alleviate his worries. The last thing she wanted to do was push away the one person she had begun to actually feel comfortable around.

"No, no," she quickly insisted. "No, it's fine, honestly." She forced a smile, to emphasise her point. Then she added shyly. "I needed a hug."

"Well, that's alright then," he let out a chuckle and, as often happened when John Watson graced a room with his smile, much of the tension that threatened to erupt melted away. Despite the miserable mood she'd been in, Molly actually found his light jollity infectious and the forced smile that had previously curved her lips turned into a genuine one.

Molly wondered if, perhaps, she should trade Ella Thompson in for this doctor instead.

John's eyes glanced up at the clock a short way behind them and they widened just a little in surprise.

"I didn't realise we'd been away that long," he remarked.

Molly's own eyes followed his lead. "Speak for yourself," she said with alarm. "My lunch break has lasted almost an hour and a half!" The pace of her footsteps drastically increased. "Parsons is going to kill me," she muttered.

John had little trouble keeping up. "What he doesn't know won't hurt him."

The pathologist threw a grateful smirk his way.

"Besides," the doctor continued. "I'd be more worried about leaving an unsupervised Sherlock in your lab."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoyed. If anyone spots errors or inconsistencies, or generally has any reccomendations for ideas, please let me know and I'll see y'all soon :)


	9. 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been waiting a while to incorporate a certain scene from the show into this story and I hope it works well.

** Chapter Nine **

To say the case of the mysterious posthumous tattoos frustrated Sherlock Holmes was an understatement. There was even an entry about it on John's website. Molly read, as she waited for her tea to cool down and, even though the entry was rather brief and scant on details, she had to admit she enjoyed it. Any glimpse into the mind of the detective was a treat and, despite her original plan to befriend Sherlock falling way by the wayside, she was still intrigued by him.

Unfortunately, there was very little to go on, with regards to discovering the person responsible for marking the bodies. Sherlock was apparently up all night going through staff records, a task John had been recruited to assist with. Molly received the despairing text during the early hours of the morning and, judging by the surprise almost screaming from her phone, John clearly hadn't expected a reply. He'd told her to go to bed and she replied with "So should you", which resulted in a short argument over who needed the sleep more. Eventually, it was decided that the employed specialist registrar needed rest far more than an unemployed, retired army veteran.

Molly fell asleep far easier that night than she had in quite a few weeks. It was just a shame her body still couldn't find a more pleasant way to wake.

There was still an hour before she had to go to work and her phone buzzed on the table beside her laptop. Retrieving it, Molly saw the sender was none other than Jim and a jolt of dread seized her heart. It was tempting to simply throw the phone to the floor and ignore she'd ever received the text, but, just like the notion of avoiding the coffee date with him, it would have been pointlessly cowardly.

Opening the message, it consisted of only one word, phrased as a question and filled her with ambivalence.

**Lunch?**

Despite the computer buff's request to meet again immediately after her social faux pas, Molly still couldn't stop herself staring at the phone screen in disbelief. He seriously wanted to spend time with her again? Did she really want to spend time with _him_? Up until the hand reach, she'd actually enjoyed her afternoon. However, the action also sent an alarm bell ringing…well, it was more like an entire bell tower going off. That wasn't a gesture one made if there was no… _intention_ behind it. Some thing would have to be done about that, but Molly wasn't exactly the most assertive of people. There was also the pessimist within insisting she get over herself. Who the Hell would want to date her, anyway?

The pathologist could feel the tendrils of despair uncurling and she had to resort to a mental shake of the brain to snap out of her downward spiral. She had to remain calm and ensure she didn't land herself in the same position again. If it really came down to it, Molly would simply have to tell Jim that she had no interest in anything more than coffee during lunch breaks.

It saddened her a little, to think that, in a sane world, this would be an ideal set up for a budding romance. Unfortunately, Molly wasn't a member of the "firing on all cylinders" club and romance wasn't on the cards anywhere in the near future, or even the rest of her life, if she was truthful to herself.

Again, this wasn't a path she wished for her thoughts to travel, so Molly decided it was time to distract herself by getting ready for work. She'd allow herself until reaching work to give Jim a definitive response.

**0**

It was certainly starting to warm up outside and Molly didn't even need to take a coat for her journey to work. She had decided to be a little more adventurous with her hair, by twisting her fringe and fixing the rest of her mane into a side ponytail. The streets of London were as packed as ever and it was quite a squeeze on the carriage of the Tube, as she counted down the stations to her stop.

Having done the journey so many times, Molly allowed her mind to wander a little. To lunch or not to lunch? _That_ was the bloody question! They got on well, but she'd made a tit of herself last time. He never made her feel uncomfortable or push for anything, but there was always the danger of it happening at some point. Then again, there was always a danger of being hit by a bus, or the sky falling on your head, but that didn't mean it _would_.

With a deep breath, Molly Hooper's mind was made up. She replied to Jim's text.

**Sure. See you then.**

Feeling brave and slightly terrified, Molly hopped onto the station platform and walked the rest of the way to work. As she stood by the crossing, waiting for the green man to light up, she fancied that one of the people across the road, also waiting to cross, looked familiar. It was hard to distinguish features, as the baseball cap resting atop his head cast shadows over his face, but there was something about the set of his jaw and mouth that tickled the edges of Molly's recognition. She might have been able to remember, had her mind not been so preoccupied.

The traffic lights turned green and everyone, including Molly started walking. She'd planned to covertly study the man's face better when he got nearer, but for some reason, his path gave her a wide berth, so she was unable to get a closer look. It was of little importance and she chose not to dwell. There were far more important things requiring her brain's attention.

**0**

Lunchtime with Jim went just as it had the day before, minus the awkward ending. Of course, it was another homemade lunch for him, but Molly's appetite was far better this time, meaning she braved the canteen food once more. They chatted, or, rather, he spoke and Molly listened; she was still pretty reluctant to talk about herself too much and more than happy to listen to whatever tales he had to tell. Currently, he was passionately detailing some new pc he was saving up for and it was clear that Jim from IT had the right job; Molly wasn't sure she loved anything as much as he apparently loved computers.

Then the subject changed and Molly was required to participate in conversation.

"So, what's the deal with that Sherlock bloke?" he asked.

Molly was surprised by the question and it took a moment for her to understand its meaning.

"Deal?" she repeated, asking for elucidation.

"Well, I've heard a few of the other staff talking about him," Jim explained. "And I s'pose I'm just wondering what he actually _does_. I mean, he's not a staff member-I know _that_ much-but he spends most of his time here in that lab with you. Although, I did spot him in my area the other day."

Molly thought for a moment, wondering how best to explain Sherlock's profession. After all, she didn't really know that much herself.

"Um..," she began. "I think he's something to do with the police?" The inclination of her voice turned the response into a query. "He comes in with someone called Lestrade, whoworks at Scotland Yard. Sherlock's not a proper detective or anything, though. He just sort of…helps out a bit."

 _Your eloquence knows no bounds!_ Molly wished her subconscious wasn't so sarcastic at times.

"Sounds pretty exciting," Jim remarked. "Only has me wishing I had your job again." He chuckled and Molly smiled in response. She couldn't agree more, as fiddling with computers all day didn't exactly get her frothing at the mouth with enthusiasm. "Have you ever visited his website?"

Molly shook her head. She wasn't even aware the detective had one.

"Yeah," Jim said. "There isn't a lot on there, just a few case notes, but it was fun to have a read through."

"Oh, really? His friend has one, too. John Watson. He's kind of Sherlock's partner in crime-well, _solving_ it anyway-and writes about their cases on his blog."

"I might have to check it out," Jim mused. "I've always loved detective stuff and he's like the real thing!"

"The comments section is the best bit sometimes," she chuckled. "John and Sherlock sound just like a married couple when they're arguing."

The topic of blogs and detectives lasted the rest of the lunch break and, this time, as they parted ways, Molly couldn't help but feel her mood lifted a little. Nothing had gone wrong, she hadn't made an arse of herself and she wasn't left feeling like a pathetic waste of oxygen. It was nice being able to succeed at something every once in a blue moon.

For the rest of the week, Jim met her every lunch time and, with each passing meeting, her confidence around him increased. It was nowhere near the level she had with John (it would take a _very_ long time for that to happen, if at all), but the little swirling of dread in her stomach gradually decreased whenever she was due to see him. What helped was the fact that Jim hadn't repeated his attempt to touch her; keeping her hair pinned securely away from her face played a part, but Molly was ignoring that little fact. Jim hadn't tried anything and she was living in hope that their relationship would forever remain platonic.

She was soon to have confirmation.

**0**

The beeping began, as Molly walked towards the lab. The triumphant cry meant the consulting detective had finally found whatever he was searching for. Quite often, she wouldn't pry into the details of their cases, preferring to let Sherlock simply get on with it, as she could always find out the ins and outs through John and his blog. It was an arrangement that suited them both. Walking through the double doors, she saw Sherlock gazing gleefully at the computer screen before him. A foot or so behind stood John, arms folded across his chest. From the expression covering his face, the doctor wasn't best pleased and she wondered what his eccentric friend might have said or done this time.

"Any luck?" she asked, conversationally. The safest time to engage Sherlock in conversation was when he was happy about something. Jubilance tended to soften the blade of his acerbic personality.

"Oh, yes!" he declared, clapping his hands together.

Molly stood closer to John, in order to see the screen and was about to offer him a coffee, as he appeared to need a few cups, when the doors swung open once again. Jim's head poked round the corner, flashing a smile the pathologist's way, but, when he saw that she wasn't alone, halted his entrance.

"Oh, sorry. I didn't-"

"Jim," Molly declared. "Hi."

Jim moved to leave, but she waved him over.

"Come in, come in," she beckoned.

The IT buff looked hesitant, but granted her wishes, slowly walking towards her. Molly watched John's expression, as the newcomer joined the trio and she wasn't quite sure what she saw in his eyes, but it wasn't the happiest of emotions. Perhaps the symptoms of his funk with the detective had yet to wear off.

Jim stopped beside Molly and a movement caught the corner of her eye. His arm lifted and his hand looked ready to rest itself on the small of her back. Her heart rate immediately increased, but, this time she found a more subtle way of stopping the contact. Turning her torso to face Jim, so that his hand wouldn't be able to reach its destination, she began introductions.

"Jim!" She said, probably forcing a little too much enthusiasm into the word. "This is John Watson."

Jim's arm fell limply to his side, as she gestured to the doctor, who now held his own hand out ready to initiate a handshake. Molly watched the interaction carefully, still confused about the look in her friend's eyes, but there was nothing out of place about the hello John gave to Jim, so maybe it really was because of Sherlock. She'd hate to think that he might not approve of Jim. She didn't have many people she could socialise with, so it'd be the worst luck in the world if they ended up loathing one another.

"And this is Sherlock Holmes," she pointed to the detective who had yet to even acknowledge Jim's presence.

There was an automatic shift in Jim's composure, as he gazed at the man engrossed in the contents displayed on the computer screen. For a short moment, Jim was silent, just watching Sherlock and Molly saw the admiration blossoming on her colleague's face. A tiny niggle worried the very outer edge of her thoughts.

"So _you're_ Sherlock Holmes," Jim said. "Molly's told me all about you."

Her brows knitted unbidden, but she smoothed away the confusion before anyone could see it. Had she? She didn't remember doing so. In fact, the only time they'd ever spoken about the man was a week ago.

"You on one of your cases?"

Jim stepped closer to Sherlock, absently forcing John out of the way, which didn't go unnoticed by Molly. It irked her a little, but she also felt a little bad for Jim, considering Sherlock was still blanking the man trying to converse with him. She tried to get the ignoramus' attention.

"Jim works in IT upstairs. It's how we met."

She offered a hopeful smile Jim's way and Sherlock glanced briefly over his shoulder, before returning to his work. The detective muttered something under his breath that made the smile fall from her lips. Had she heard him correctly?

"Sorry, what?" Shock forced the request for clarification from her mouth, before she even realised what she was doing.

"Nothing," Sherlock said, tossing a half-hearted forced smile at Jim. "Um…hey."

Molly knew for a fact that wasn't what he'd said, but Jim appeared oblivious, as he smiled back. He was now on the other side of Sherlock, but his eyes apparently didn't even care about the information on the screen; they were enthralled by the detective, not his work.

"Hey."

Jim lowered his hand to rest on the table, but ended up knocking one of the metal dishes, which clattered loudly as it hit the floor and earned a glower from Sherlock. John clamped a hand over his eyes to cover the embarrassment and amusement he felt about the situation. For her part, Molly was furiously chewing her lip to keep from laughing. It was hard not to look at John, but she knew that the moment she did, both of them would be in fits of giggles. Poor Jim.

The computer technician scrambled to pick up the object and place it back on the table, apologising profusely as he did. He'd reverted back to the awkwardness displayed during his first meeting with Molly. Nervously scratching his arm, he strolled back over to where Molly now stood beside John. She hoped he hadn't hurt himself during the little display of clumsiness.

"Well, I'd better be off," he said, quietly. Molly could sense the shame and her pity grew. Sherlock was pretty good at intimidating people and making them feel like the biggest idiot in the room, but, this time he'd hardly had to do a thing. "See you later, yeah?" he asked Molly and she nodded. His eyes fell on Sherlock once more. "It was nice to meet you."

Sherlock ignored him and Molly had never wanted to kick the aloof lanky bastard before, knowing the nature of his personality, but she couldn't help feeling sorry for Jim. The awkwardness in the room continued to rise, as no response to Jim's farewell was aired. Eventually, it was John who saved the day.

"You too," he declared, offering a smile.

Jim nodded, looking self-conscious, before finally turning to leave. Molly watched his retreat from the lab and waited for the door to fully close, before questioning Sherlock. She took a couple of steps forward.

"Wh-what do you mean, gay?"

Sherlock looked up and raised an eyebrow, as if he expected better of her.

"What?" She didn't appreciate his scrutiny and it was disconcerting how much she hated the idea of somehow disappointing him.

"Well, I hope you two are happy together."

"No, no…we're not together," she protested, fear igniting in her eyes. She sincerely hoped she hadn't given off _that_ impression.

"Good thing too," Sherlock remarked. "Because it would be a waste your time."

John chimed in, an attempt to alleviate the pressure from Molly. "I have to say I don't see it."

"With that level of personal grooming?" Sherlock snorted.

"Because he puts a bit of product in his hair?" John argued. " _I_ put product in my hair."

Molly's eyes inadvertently went to the silvery blonde crop atop John's head.

"You _wash_ your hair," Sherlock corrected. "There's a difference."

The Most Observant Man in The World then went into a monologue detailing every piece of physical evidence to prove his assertions about Jim's sexuality. Molly listened with a combination of awe and disbelief. Just how in the Hell of it all could Sherlock see Jim had _tinted eyelashes_ after no more than a brief glance?

"…Then there's his underwear."

" _Underwear_?" Molly couldn't see what that had to do with anything and some might question Sherlock's sexuality if he spent his time studying that specific area of other men.

"Visible above the waistband-v _ery_ visible; very particular brand." Sherlock leaned along the table and reached for the metal dish Jim had knocked over. "That, plus the _extremely_ suggestive fact that he just left his number under this dish."

Molly took the card handed to her. True to his word, scribbled in elegant black ink on the small rectangle of white, was the very number programmed into her phone under Jim's name. She gazed at it for a very long moment, before feeling the corners of her lips tug upwards. A mixture of emotions swam and collided inside her stomach and she could feel the mirth bubbling within her throat. A note of disappointment tried to nudge its way in, because she began to wonder if she was being used to get to Sherlock, but ultimately found that, even if it were true, she didn't bloody care! Sherlock had unwittingly made her month.

The smile finally broke out and a frown of confusion wrinkled the brow of the pale man sat before her. He looked over at John, who simply shrugged, trying to keep his own smile at bay. The doctor understood the reason behind her joy, but Sherlock's obvious mystification only served to increase her amusement. She fanned the card, gently drumming it against the fingers of her other hand, before spinning and slowly wandering over to the exit.

Jim was gay.

Jim was gay?

Jim. Was. _Gay_!

Thank the bloody Lord Christ up in Heaven! Molly had no doubts about Sherlock's assessment, as she had witnessed his powers of deduction several times and didn't think he'd ever been wrong. And the furtive placement of his phone number for Sherlock? That was just the full stop at the end of the sentence. Jim was gay and Molly had absolutely no reason to panic about the possibility of advances from him anymore. She even entertained notions of finding Jim and giving him the biggest hug ever, something that _never_ would have happened five minutes ago.

Molly was in a very good mood, as she strolled into the morgue, ready to examine the body waiting on the table for her. Screwing up the card containing Jim's number and throwing it into the bin as she passed, her eyes fell upon the body and all joy died.

No close inspection was required of the corpse, this time. All she needed to see were the words etched into the dead woman's chest, running vertically from collar to genitalia. The letters were carved deep and screamed to the reader in vibrant red. Molly had seen many things during the course of her short career and she liked to think squeamishness had been stamped out. Unfortunately, every so often, something would arrive to send her stomach reeling.

Molly's tummy span in nauseating circles and the words echoed in her head, as the whisper fell from her lips.

"To get you…"


	10. 10

** Chapter Ten **

There was no need to inform her superiors this time around; _nobody_ was missing something like that. The words were lurid with maliciousness, brutality and sadism and she felt shivers of disgust run down her spine. She didn't want to get any closer to the body, but her job description insisted she did so. With hesitant steps, she approached the female and it felt wrong to feel that the gender of the victim made the scene even more horrific. Molly could immediately tell that the words had been carved whilst the victim was still alive and seeing the female form so horrendously brutalised was awful to comprehend.

Although the wounds had been done before death, the vibrancy of the red lettering meant something had been added to give the colour, so she had to take several scrapings, which were placed into small circular dishes for later analysis. Overtime was going to be a necessity for this particular case.

As she wrote up her notes, the whistle of door hinges made her look up to see a couple of people enter the morgue. She recognised the first man as Dimmock, the detective who had once accompanied Sherlock to look at feet. Behind him trailed a shorter man, with a much rounder figure and a shorn head. He didn't strike her as particularly friendly and much of his time was spent with a wrinkled nose of displeasure. She wondered why he had chosen his profession, if death was in such disagreement with his disposition.

"I see you've examined our body, then," Dimmock said, as a way of greeting.

"Yes," Molly confirmed, straightening herself and resting the pen on top of the paper.

"What have you got for us, then?"

Molly, falling fully into the role of pathologist, started reciting all she had discovered about the body. The victim was female, roughly thirty years old and died of poisoning. The words cut into the chest had been done whilst the victim was alive and, given the precision of the lettering, the woman must have been unconscious during the barbaric work, most likely by sedation, as no marks of physical assault were present. Molly suspected paint or some sort of dye had been used to make the words the vibrant scarlet they now were, but she would need time to discover its identity, as well as that of the poison. There was no doubt that this was the work of whoever had carved "I'm" and "Going" into the previous two bodies.

Dimmock's attention never wavered from the pathologist as she spoke. The same could not be said for his companion. His eyes travelled all over the room, as well as glaring in revulsion at the corpse she described. Molly decided to ignore him from that point on, before her blood could begin to bubble with rage. Just because life had left the body, didn't mean it deserved to be looked at like something thrown out with the rubbish. She may have been repulsed by the appearance of the victim, but it was motivated by compassion for the woman, not plain snobbery.

"I understand you were the person who discovered the markings on the first body," Dimmock commented, when Molly's assessment had concluded.

"That's right."

"Due to the nature of the victim's death, we are now looking at a murder inquiry, so this has become one of our top priorities. We'll need access to all the records, as well as probable re-examination of all three bodies, to help us solve this case. Because your discoveries are all we have to go on so far, we'd like to employ your expertise on this case, to help us catch whatever madman is doing this. It'll require working closely with my team and me, meaning this will be your sole focus for the foreseeable future. How does that sound?"

Molly studied the detective's face and saw the earnestness behind his words. She could see the passion and need to stop this before the barbarity got out of hand and that was a cause Molly was more than happy to sign up to. She nodded in agreement to his request.

"I hear Sherlock Holmes has already begun an investigation into it?"

It was phrased as a question, but there was no uncertainty in Dimmock's eyes. She wasn't entirely sure how to answer, as she didn't know what Sherlock and John had told them and still feared a reprimand from her superiors. In the end, the safest response was to nod again.

"Do you know how far his investigation has led him?"

"Sorry, no," she answered honestly. "I haven't heard a thing about it, I'm afraid."

Dimmock turned to his silent partner. "We'll have to have a word with him, I think. Find out what he knows and, if we're lucky, recruit _his_ help, too."

"What do we need that arrogant prick for?" the skinhead demanded, clearly having no love for consultants. "We're already on the case!"

"The more the merrier, Jones," was Dimmock's reply.

Jones just rolled his eyes in reply, before speaking once more. "Whatever. Can we get out of here now? Fucking stinks in here!"

 _That would be your shitty attitude!_ Molly longed to speak her mind, but would never have the courage to, so settled for crossing her arms instead. She wished the "arrogant prick" in question was present, as his retort would have been legendary, she was sure. The look Dimmock gave her was brimming with apology and she prayed her involvement in the case wouldn't require much interaction with the uncouth individual.

"Well, we've got what we need for now," the more amiable detective said. "But I'll leave you with our numbers." He handed her a card with two numbers written onto it in blue biro. "How quickly can you get the analysis of the red substance finished?"

"Um," Molly scrambled for a rough estimate. "Definitely by the end of the day."

"Right, I'll be back then. If possible, I'd also like to start looking through the records you've collected so far."

"Okay," she agreed, stuffing the card into the left pocket of her lab coat.

"See you soon," Dimmock said, before leading his unfriendly colleague out of the morgue.

The farewell was brief and exit hasty, but Molly didn't mind; it meant she could get back to work faster. And what a lot she had to do! First things first, though; the body wasn't going to finish an autopsy on itself. She went back to her notes and picked up the pen, but couldn't begin writing immediately, as her brain slowly caught up with the events that had just happened. She was now a consultant for the police! A couple of seconds ticked by, before a (possibly ill timed) chuckle escaped her throat, as she considered the fact that she was now in the same league as Sherlock. Not intellectually-she wasn't in any way delusional enough to compare her intelligence to his-but they were both consultants for the police. The only difference was that Scotland Yard had requested _her_ assistance, whereas they had no choice but to accept Sherlock's.

Molly knew that from that point on, her free time was about to dissolve rapidly and she didn't have a single regret. Busy was good, busy meant distraction and, if Dimmock was able to recruit the dynamic duo, she'd hopefully be involved in one of their cases. That was an exciting prospect in itself for her, although she still had misgivings about the whole thing. If the murders were escalating, Molly wasn't looking forward to the next body that might roll into the morgue. She'd have to brace herself, though, because this was the career she had chosen to move into and there was no backing out now.

 _Focus, Molly_ , her brain ordered. She couldn't get too wrapped up in musings, as she had a job to do. Rearranging her grip on the biro, she settled down at the table and set about finishing the first of many tasks.

**0**

Lunch was cut down to only a few minutes, as Molly feared she wouldn't have the analysis ready in time otherwise. She was surprised when there was no sign of Jim and she checked her phone, whilst waiting in the queue to pay for her coffee, but no message or call had been received. Hopefully he hadn't been too embarrassed by the events in the lab, but she decided to refrain from contacting him. If Jim was upset, she wouldn't want to make things any worse.

Thanking the cashier, she carried her coffee back up to the lab and having no time to eat didn't bother the pathologist in the slightest. There was too much going on in her mind to focus on digestion and she was itching to get back to work. It wasn't until almost six in the evening that Dimmock returned, hoping to get the results and Molly was very pleased not to disappoint.

"Gloss paint?" The identity of the red substance colouring the letters on the woman's chest surprised the detective. "What, like Dulux?"

"Yep," Molly confirmed. "Available from all good DIY shops."

"Which means it won't help us narrow down the culprit."

"Probably not on its own, but I worked out what was used as a poison." She grabbed a sheet of paper containing all her notes and Dimmock's eyebrows rose a little with intrigue. "White spirit."

"White spirit?" the DI parroted in surprise. "Should I be looking for suspects at B&Q?" He picked up the notes and began skimming through. "I didn't think white spirit was that dangerous?"

"Not generally," Molly explained. "But, taken in either prolonged or large doses, it can definitely kill. From the autopsy, I'd say it was the latter. How it was administered, however, is another matter, because it would be hard to trick someone into drinking such a large quantity."

Dimmock remained silent for a short while, clearly mulling things over in his head, before he spied the small stack of files beside her.

"Are they the post mortem reports?" he asked.

"Yes," she replied, her torso twisting, as she picked them up. "I've rechecked the earlier two, to make sure they're complete."

Dimmock gave a grateful smile, as she handed them to him. "It's a shame we don't have more to go on," he sighed.

Molly wondered how long it would take Sherlock to solve his current case, as it seemed that his expertise would be a great help on this one. She could see by the worry lines decorating the face of the man beside her that he had absolutely _no_ idea where to start and she wished she could have been a bit more help. The case was so mystifying, though. It was clear that the words scrawled on the bodies were a message, but who were they for and what did they mean? There was also the worrying thought that the message wasn't yet complete and Molly didn't want to predict what the next words would be or when they would arrive. It also, to her, seemed like a very inefficient delivery method, as there was no guarantee that the intended recipient would receive it. Perhaps the confusion was all part of the plan. Perhaps the message was just a way to get attention or divert it.

Molly ended her musings, knowing she wasn't at all qualified to work any of it out. All she could do was offer her expertise and trust the police to connect the dots before too many more suffered. Dimmock seemed pretty passionate about his work and as competent as any other detective she'd met, although her own faith in the law wasn't the highest around.

"Thanks for this," Dimmock said, his eyes fixed on the first page of Elsie Martin's report. "And I'll take whatever you've got for the paint and poison."

She bundled all her other notes together and gave them to him.

"I'll contact you if-or when-I need anything else."

"Okay," Molly said, with a smile of encouragement. "I'll do whatever I can."

Dimmcok said goodbye, before striding back out of the lab and Molly was left alone once more. To say it had been a busy day was rather an understatement, but she felt good for such productivity. She liked having a purpose, which was a silly thing to say given her daily job, but knowing her efforts would help such a cause filled her with a small sense of pride. She always felt that way whenever her work helped an investigation, but this was the first time she'd actually been brought in at the beginning of one.

For most, this would be an omen for a good night's sleep. Unfortunately, Molly doubted she would be so lucky. There was many a time when she berated herself for being so incapable of something so necessary for her general wellbeing, but it never helped. She would just have to do as much as possible to distract her mind until fatigue finally took over.

To aid with the plan, Molly decided to take home copies of the reports and read through them, in case there was anything she might have missed during her initial examinations. Not the most delightful of bedtime reading, but it wouldn't hurt to try.

**0**

The walk home was vague, as Molly had so much going on in her head. Ideas, theories and snippets from the autopsies all swam around her brain, each vying to be the focus of her attention and there was little attention left to spare for the world around her. She almost collided with a couple of pedestrians, but nearly stepping onto the wrong tube train was the mental shake she needed.

_Concentrate, Molly!_

Her mind seemed to be saying that a lot more lately and gaining an inability to focus certainly wasn't well timed. She needed all the mental sharpness possible, if she was going to help the police find the murderer.

Trotting up the steps that lead to the streets of London, she sped up in order to get home sooner, but, as she turned the corner where her block of flats was situated, she actually _did_ collide with someone. Her torso twisted sharply, as her shoulder smacked against the bicep of the oncoming man and the jolt of pain shooting down her arm reminded her of how important it was to watch where she was going, rather than stare at the pavement. She immediately launched into an apology, but was cut off by the person wearing a baseball cap. His face remained out of her vision, as he hadn't fully turned to face her, but the headgear stirred her memory. Sadly, he was moving out of Molly's reach, before recognition could spark and she chose to simply shrug off the encounter.

Finally reaching home, she immediately dumped her cumbersome bag and coat by the door, before heading straight for the kitchen, in order to fill the kettle. Letting it boil, she pulled the jumper over her head and discarded it on the floor, before heading towards the bathroom. She removed the band that secured her hair into its restrictive ponytail and let the heavy mane tumble about her shoulders, with the intention of brushing it, but her plans were thwarted. For some bizarre reason, her hairbrush appeared to have completely vanished. She could have sworn it was on the side of the sink when she finished using it last.

Scanning the entire bathroom, she then began searching the rest of the bedsit, but to no avail. Where the Hell was it? Had the bloody thing grown _legs_ , or something? Her home wasn't very big and there wasn't room for much furniture, so the places it could be hidden were rather limited. It wasn't in any of them. After fifteen minutes of searching, she lost the will to continue and rummaged through her bag for the comb she usually kept inside. Thankfully, that particular item hadn't chosen to vanish, so she was able to detangle the ends of her hair.

Well, if Sherlock and John ever got _really_ bored, they could always try solving the mystery of a vanishing hairbrush. She tried to imagine how it would be written up in the doctor's blog and the notion forced a short giggle from her throat. Rubbing her hands over her eyes, Molly wondered if she was truly cracking up. Doctor Thompson was always offering sleeping pills to help her patient's insomnia, but the thought of taking them, even for her own good, had always terrified her. Being unable to wake from one of her nightmares was far worse than never getting a good night's sleep again.

Molly would just have to rely on what little rest she _could_ get and pray that, one day, whatever it was pulling the strings of the universe would see fit to cut the mousy little pathologist some slack. She didn't think it was a big ask, in the grand scheme of things. Most desired money, fame or the perfect body, the perfect family, the perfect _life._ Surely sanity wasn't too much to ask…

…surely?


	11. 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm very happy to say that I now know where the blimmin' 'eck this story is going, YAY! Now that I have finally worked out the plot, I'm hoping that the chapters will be a lot more plot heavy, although the character development will still remain, don't worry.

** Chapter Eleven **

"Urgh!"

Molly resorted to tipping the majority of her bag's contents onto the table, before searching frantically for a hair band, or something vaguely capable of holding back her hair. Somehow _every single one_ she owned had disappeared and an entire morning of searching offered no clues as to their whereabouts. The pathologist swore she was going barmy; it was the second time she'd lost a personal belonging in less than a week!

Unfortunately, her bag search proved fruitless, so she was forced to twist her hair and tuck it into the collar of her shirt. Not ideal, but the best solution she could find for the moment. Were it not for the damage it would do to her hair, Molly would have looked for an elastic band to use instead, but decided to wait until her lunch break to nip to the nearest shop and hope they sold hair accessories.

With a deep breath of preparation, Molly mentally sifted through all the tasks assigned to her that day and prioritised. Firstly, she had a couple of post mortems to do, before a whole afternoon of lab work. Little more had come up about the posthumous tattoo case, resulting in no further contact from Dimmock for the time being, besides the occasional question regarding her notes and reports.

After shrugging on her white coat and reaching into a small cardboard box, she pulled on the blue plastic gloves and prepared the first body for analysis. Child death was always a sad case. Without even starting the examination, she could tell the girl was under ten and it would cloud the rest of the day in a sombre tone.

Just as she began properly studying the corpse, the double doors swung open and Sherlock Holmes made a typically dramatic entrance.

"Molly!" he declared, striding towards her amidst a gale of determination and black cloth.

"Oh, hello," she greeted, looking up from the pale body, as he came to stand beside her. "What brings you here today?" It had been several days since she had last seen or heard from either him or John. Their last case must have kept them rather busy.

"A severe lack of intellectual conversation," he deadpanned.

Her eyes narrowed slightly, as she tried to ascertain whether he was being serious or sarcastic. It was often hard to tell.

"Don't repeat that remark to John," he warned. "It'll only hurt his feelings."

The spurt of humour was uncommon and unexpected, leaving Molly unsure of how to respond. She could only assume that when he was looking for intellectual conversation, he wasn't requesting it from her. In the end, she settled for a half smile and was about to offer a comment, when his attention fell onto the girl displayed on the table before him.

"Natural or unnatural?" he queried, referring to the cause of the child's death.

"Natural, I believe," she replied.

"Hmm."

The response held a note of disappointment and most would have been appalled at his attitude regarding such a topic. Luckily for Sherlock, Molly understood enough about him to know his mind didn't work the same way as everyone else's. Empathy wasn't his strong point and he lamented the lack of a potential case, rather than wishing tragic fates upon the children of England.

There was a brief pause, before the curly haired detective spoke once more. "Did you give Dimmock the reports regarding Elsie Martin and George Goodman?"

"Yes, but I have copies."

"Excellent," Sherlock clapped his hands together, a sign that he was ready to start working, before loosening the knot of his scarf. "I'll need those, as well as everything else you have on the case so far, including the samples of paint and poison used on the third victim." The gradually decreasing volume of his voice revealed his intended departure.

"Okay," she said. "I s'pose you'll be up in the lab?" she called the question to his retreating form.

Sherlock's lack of confirmation hung in the empty space that had once contained his body and the swish of closing doors announced his swift departure from the morgue. Molly only rolled her eyes, well used to his lack of social etiquette. Removing her gloves, she set about finding the items he required. Of course, the post mortem of the child would need to be completed, but she wasn't going to deny she appreciated a reason to delay the process.

The files were in the morgue, but the paint and white spirit were both already in the lab, so Sherlock had only just settled himself down at a table by the time Molly entered the room. Placing the reports beside him, she then went in search of the samples, which took a little longer to find. They were going to be placed with the files, but he had his palm open, ready for receipt.

"Is there anything else you need?" she queried.

"No," he replied and Molly turned to head for the door, but his voice stopped her. "Oh, there was one more thing, actually," he began, although he didn't actually look at the woman he was speaking to. "John would probably appreciate me telling you to avoid any future interaction with Jim from IT."

That threw Molly completely and her brows came together in confusion, as her torso circled to face Sherlock again. "Why?"

"I'll let him explain," Sherlock answered cryptically, flicking through the pages of Elsie Martin's file and his voice lowered for his next words. "He was the one with a bomb strapped to his chest, after all."

" _What_?" Molly cried, her eyes like saucers and jaw hanging open.

Just then, a second person entered the lab and John walked towards them, carrying a couple of take away drinks. Seeing the expression on the pathologist's face, he stopped and his eyebrows rose.

"What?" he asked, parroting her previous exclamation, although he was fuelled by a very different emotion. His eyes flitted between Molly and Sherlock.

"A _bomb_?" she demanded.

No clarification was necessary and, from the glare John shot Sherlock's way, it wasn't a snippet of information he'd intended to share with Molly. At least, not yet.

"Thank you, Mr Tact," he sighed, continuing forward and placing both drinks onto the table, before sliding one towards his tall comrade. "It's nothing to worry about," he insisted, his eyes on Molly again.

"Really?" she countered. "So that's also just par for the course, is it?" she pointed to a large bruise decorating his neck.

John's hand unconsciously reached up to touch the wound mentioned and she rounded the table to carry out a closer inspection. The doctor raised his hands, trying to reiterate his claim of wellbeing, but she was determined to ascertain the truth for herself.

"What happened?" she asked, pulling at his collar to see the full extent of the bruising. It began an inch or so below the left corner of his jaw and formed a large circle that reached down to the middle of his jugular. A blend of purple and blue, the very centre had begun to turn yellow, meaning the healing process was underway. She wondered what had caused the injury and her eyes roamed the rest of his visible skin for further abrasions, relieved when no more were found.

"I told you, nothing to worry about," John insisted. "I wasn't badly hurt and everyone left safe and sound."

"But that could've easily _not_ been the case," she pointed out, watching his Adam's apple move as he spoke. "And what's Jim got to do with it?"

"Jim?" John's face turned to look her directly in the eye. "Who mentioned him?"

Molly gestured to Sherlock with her head and another sigh left John's lips, as the second accusatory glare was hurled at the detective, who simply sipped at his coffee, without removing his attention from the files before him. Apparently, he didn't think he'd done anything wrong and Molly was inclined to agree. Of course, there was no obligation placed upon John to actually reveal any of the incidents during cases, but she was still annoyed at him for failing to mention the teensy little fact that he could have _died_. Oh, and that Jim was somehow involved.

"Listen," John said, his right hand gently pulling hers away from his collar. Molly had forgotten she was even holding the fabric and his fingers curled around hers for a very brief moment, before her hand was placed on the table. "I'll explain everything later, if you like. What time is your lunch break?"

"U-um…" she stammered, a tingling running down the fingers that had connected with his, before they began lightly drumming against the table top. "About one, provided nothing urgent comes up."

"We'll discuss it then, okay?"

It wasn't okay, not even a tiny bit, but Molly had little opportunity to argue. John clearly wasn't in the mood to discuss it at that moment and she did have quite a bit of work to do. With deep resignation, she nodded in agreement and asked one last time if anyone needed anything more from her, before she had to return to the morgue.

**0**

At about twelve thirty, Molly's pocket started vibrating. Pulling out her phone, she saw that John had sent her a text, which was immediately opened.

**Hey. Schedule still alright for lunch at 1?**

She quickly sent a one word reply. Her responses were usually more expressive, but irritation still ran through her veins. Her mind was racing with questions about what had happened to John, why he'd been attached to a fucking bomb and what in God's name Jim had been mentioned for. Did the awkward, but ultimately easygoing IT expert seriously have something to do with the case the pair had recently solved? If so, what kind of role had he played, given that Sherlock felt the need to warn her against him? Molly hadn't heard a thing from Jim since the revelation of his homosexuality and the texts she sent had gone unanswered, but she'd simply put the silence down to embarrassment for the scene he'd created in the lab. Could it be something more?

Her phone buzzed once more and a trickle of guilt snaked down her spine upon reading the second text.

**You're annoyed, aren't you?**

Molly chewed the inside of her cheek. The remorseful tone of the message almost screamed out at her and she worried that she might have been a little too harsh earlier. She couldn't help it, though; how else did he _expect_ her to react to the news? Surely he should have predicted her displeasure, but what if he hadn't ever planned on telling her? Would he really keep something like that to himself? Why did she care so much?

Yet another message interrupted her thoughts.

**I really am sorry. I was going to tell you myself, but Bigmouth couldn't help himself.**

Molly could just picture the doctor's face speaking the words she read and she let out a groan. She couldn't leave him thinking she was furious with him.

 **It's fine,** she typed. **Just shocked and worried me, that's all.**

John's reply made it clear he wasn't entirely appeased, but she assured him that they could talk it over properly in half an hour. However, it turned out that she would be nowhere near prepared for the explanation she received.

**0**

Apparently, Jim didn't just play a role in Sherlock and John's last case, he was the bloody mastermind! Molly practically had to scoop her chin up from the floor, upon hearing everything he had done and that was just a condensed version; she preferred not to hear the unabridged tale.

"So, I was walking along, minding my own business and…" John's shoulders shrugged, to clarify he hadn't a clue what happened. "Blacked out."

Molly's eyes were wide with apprehension and, if she was honest, a hint of awe. Those two really did have the most incredible adventures. She reckoned someone could make quite a few bob out of writing a book about them.

"I came to and found myself wearing a bulletproof vest dripping in explosives," John continued, leaning forward in his chair to rest his elbows on the cafeteria table. "The biggest shock of all, though, was when Jim made his grand entrance. Neither of us recognised the guy at first, because he'd been putting on an accent the last time we saw him." A brief pause, as John considered his words. "Well, at least, I assume he was. Unless the Irish accent is fake. Anyway, it turned out that everything was just a way to get Sherlock's attention, including posing as a staff member here."

A dark cloud fell across John's features, then and his lips pressed into a grim line. Molly wondered what was going through his mind, but didn't want to interrupt his moment of silence. Something obviously bothered the man and he needed to deal with whatever it was in his own way.

"They're alike in a lot of ways," he eventually murmured.

"Who?" She asked, when it was evident John wouldn't elaborate further without provocation.

"Sherlock and Moriarty."

"Moriarty?"

"That's his real name; James Moriarty. He's basically the result of what would happen should Sherlock decide to become a criminal."

"Really?"

The very notion terrified Molly. She'd witnessed the level of Sherlock's intellect on several occasions and could only be grateful that he was on the side of the law. A shiver ran up her spine and she felt an immediate desire to remove Jim's number from her phone, to cease all contact. She sincerely hoped the lack of communication between her and Jim would be permanent.

John glimpsed the alarm in her posture. "Don't worry, Molly," he said. "I really think you were only a tool to get to Sherlock." A short sardonic chuckle escaped his lips. "Normally, that'd piss someone off."

The corner of Molly's lips twitched upwards in appreciation of the slightly dark sense of humour. John was right, of course; under normal circumstances, she would be furious to discover a person's sole motivation for acknowledging her existence was to gain access to another. Yet one more reminder that Molly's life was far from normal.

 _That's enough about you,_ she reminded herself.

"Are you okay?" she asked. John may have been relatively unscathed physically, but just how damaging was it to endure what he had?

"Honestly, I'm fine," he replied and, to her great surprise, he really seemed to be. "Nothing a good night's sleep can't alleviate."

 _If only,_ she thought to herself, ignoring the pang of jealousy his remark ignited. She had no idea if he was right, because she couldn't remember the last time she'd experienced a Good Night's Sleep. "How can you be so…dismissive about it all? If that was me, I'd be a paranoid wreck." _If I wasn't already,_ she finished silently.

John took a deep breath, before leaning back in his chair and considering her question. "Honestly?" He gave her a look that said he was assessing whether to tell her the truth or not. "It's not too dissimilar to what happened in Afghanistan. Compared to many out there, I've had a lucky escape."

Molly bit her lip, wondering if she'd been insensitive by asking her question. She certainly didn't want him dredging up bad memories. For all intents and purposes, though, John Watson really did seem okay and she was glad to see it. Sherlock's blasé comment certainly had filled her with dread and a variety of disturbing images ran through her mind, before seeing John, alive and well, entering the lab moments later. The depth of her relief at that point might have said a lot about her developing relationship with the man sat opposite her, but there was no way Molly's subconscious was ready to acknowledge anything of the sort for the time being. This meant it was another of those moments that passed by unnoticed, stored away for much later analysis.

The pathologist was going to get an almighty shock one of these days.

The lunch break continued, with the pair discussing different elements of the bizarre Moriarty case and he shared some ideas of how he planned to write it up in his blog. All worry for her friend aside, it proved to be one of the most fascinating cases he had assisted Sherlock with and she didn't miss the gleam of excitement in his eyes as he spoke. She was sorely tempted to slap him after the revelation that he'd been prepared to gamble his life to save Sherlock's, but that said it all, really. Of course John was okay. Wearing a vest of explosives wasn't going to hurt his mental disposition, nor was the threat of losing his life in the pursuit of justice. That kind of pressure didn't hinder him, it aided him. Hell, he bloody _thrived_ on it! It also proved the depth of loyalty his nature was capable of. It was ironic to think that someone as socially stunted as Sherlock could find a companion with such enviable qualities. She wondered if the detective was aware of the luck he possessed.

"So, I hear you've been recruited for this investigation of the marked bodies," John commented, as they exited the canteen.

"Um, yeah," she said, finding the switch in topic difficult after such a revelatory morning. There were more questions she had, but didn't want to force anyone to dwell. "That detective Dimmock asked me to help. I'm not entirely sure what I can offer now that you and Sherlock are involved, though. My expertise is in post mortems, not puzzle solving."

"Sherlock makes everyone feel that way, believe me. If anything, _I_ should be the one feeling redundant. With a specialist registrar, a boffin and Scotland Yard on the case, what am I but a glorified first aider?"

"I don't think anyone can overestimate the importance of a good plaster," she quipped and John smiled back at her.

They continued making their way back up to the morgue in comfortable silence, but there was one last thing Molly wanted to ask. "John," she began. "Do you think Ji-I mean, Moriarty-will be back?"

The small space between them was closed by the doctor and their arms now brushed as they walked. "I already said you don't need to worry about him-"

"I'm not worried about me," she interrupted, clarifying her intent. "I'm worried about him coming after you two again. You got away once, but what about next time?"

John didn't answer right away, preferring to bow his head a little and purse his lips in consideration. That was enough to send her anxieties sky rocketing. If things really were as fine as he claimed, surely he would've just answered right away.

"We were caught by surprise last time," he eventually replied. "We didn't know what we were dealing with, but we can be prepared now. There's no way I'm letting that mad bastard pull _that_ sort of stunt again."

His remark didn't really help alleviate her worries and it was her turn to look away and start chewing her bottom lip. John must have realised his mistake and she felt the gentle application of pressure against the middle of her back.

"Molly, stop worrying," he ordered. "I live with Sherlock; anything else is a walk in the park."

His comment and the wink that followed elicited a giggle from the pathologist and the air felt a little less tense, as the pair reached the laboratory.

**0**

The sky outside the window gradually faded to a deep indigo, with wispy patches of grey breaking up the colour, as evening drew further towards night time. Molly had stayed at the hospital much longer than planned, finishing off the reports for three of the post mortems she had performed that day. As she'd told Sherlock, the girl suffered a natural death, but it saddened her to think that someone so young would suffer such breathing difficulties and die from them, too.

Molly always found it a horrendous cliché when people said moments like that made them realise how precious life was/how lucky they were/that things shouldn't be taken for granted, but, at times, she understood what they meant. People made plans everyday for events that would happen years in the future, or worry about what the paths of their life might hold, but the little girl in the cold drawer downstairs made it painfully clear that it was far better to focus on the present, should such a future never have the opportunity to arise.

Letting the pen clatter noisily down onto the table, Molly rested her elbows on the cool surface and rubbed her tired eyes. What a day! The dynamic crime solving duo had left a couple of hours ago and it was up to John to inform her of their departure. Their return tomorrow was almost guaranteed and the young woman wasn't afraid to admit how glad she was to hear it. The last few days, whilst busy, had been pretty lonely, what with John helping stop the crime spree that had ultimately caused Jim to cease his ruse as an IT specialist at the hospital.

Shuffling all the papers into a neat pile, before slotting them into the beige file, Molly stored them away in one of the filing cabinets, before ensuring everything else was tidied correctly. Technically, half the stuff should have already been cleared by Joseph, but his grudge against Sherlock was as strong as ever and it didn't really bother her. She didn't exactly have much waiting for her at home.

With her coat wrapped snugly around her form and bag strap hooked over her shoulder, Molly strode to the corner of the lab where the light switches were located, flicking them off one by one. With eyes fixed on the ceiling, she didn't see the silhouette outlined in the doorway, as the last light was extinguished.

"Might I have a word?"

Molly span wildly in the direction of the deep male voice, her heart leaping up into her throat. Every muscle in her body instinctively coiled, ready to spring into action should it become necessary and her mind whirred through all the possibilities that could lead to the situation she now found herself in. Who had spoken and what did they want? The silhouette took a few steps forward and she began to recognise the shape of the person ahead, with the curly hair and upturned collar.

"Sh-Sherlock?" Her voice was pathetically mousy and quivered with the fear-induced adrenaline pumping through her veins. What was he doing back here? Faint hope glimmered, as she wondered if there was something he needed help with. Anything that prevented her from having to return to that crummy bedsit was a God send.

She switched one of the fluorescent lights back on, in order to see his face a little better and the shadows it threw over his features only pronounced his unearthly countenance. For a bizarre moment, she wondered what his parents looked like, as he must have inherited the striking features from somewhere.

"What can I help you with?" she asked, her voice a little steadier, as her heartbeat became a little more regular.

Sherlock advanced several more steps, until he was stood beside the table a couple of feet away from her. Out of his coat, he pulled a thick file and let it land loudly on the table top, before opening and skipping through several pages. Once the one he desired was reached, his pale hands rested either side and icy blue eyes ran over the words as he spoke.

"When you first brought the markings on the dead bodies to my attention, a number of scenarios, as to how they were performed ran through my mind. The fact that Elsie Martin and George Goodman were both natural deaths means it is highly unlikely the culprit was present immediately after their deaths. Therefore, I believe whoever's responsible somehow has access to St Bart's morgue, which is why I requested the staff records."

Molly had moved closer and finished at a ninety degree angle from Sherlock, meaning she had to lean her head to the side for the words to be upright. A long list of names was present, with numbers beside each one and she assumed they were the employment records he spoke of. The list was pretty long and she wondered what other information had been attained to make the file so thick. Several names were highlighted, but Sherlock's voice commanded her attention, before she could reach the name which would cause her heartbeat to accelerate once again.

"Most of the employees checked out, with only a few needing further clarification to discover they were also fine. There is, however, one name that has proven to be particularly intriguing."

The file was turned, so that Molly no longer had to manipulate her neck to read the page properly. A long finger pointed to one of the names and a frown creased her brow.

"That's me," she declared, her eyes moving upwards to meet his. "But…why would I be intriguing?"

Sherlock's eyes blazed, as they bore into hers and, as much as she wanted to look away, she felt transfixed by his impenetrable gaze.

"You tell me, Molly Hooper," he replied, his voice low and quiet, but no less commanding as he spoke. "Or…should I say, Mary Morstan?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I warned you all that this was going to be AU! I hope the big reveal at the end of that hasn't upset too many people and I won't lose all of my readers lol.


	12. Chapter 12

** Chapter Twelve **

Molly stood, frozen to the spot, as sharp blades of ice penetrated her senses and left her numb. Had she the wits and ability to gaze down at her chest, she imagined it would have pulsated with the dramatic thudding of her heart and the solitary light above, emitting a garish yellow glow, suddenly felt too bright. Tiny beads of perspiration broke out across her forehead and palms and she wanted nothing more than a lovely black hole to open in the floor below and swallow her.

Sherlock knew. She should have expected it to happen the moment he requested the hospital's staff records, but the thought hadn't even crossed her mind. It never even occurred to the relatively intelligent woman that someone like Sherlock would want to investigate the identities of every person working at St Bartholomew's Hospital and, by doing so, uncover the secret of a woman who wanted nothing more than to remain under the radar. He'd want to know the reason behind her change of name and she wasn't sure if she could divulge her terrible past to the cold, calculating man.

Then again, if he possessed the means to discovering her true name, wouldn't he also know why she'd done it? Had he not bothered to delve that far into her past or was he simply hoping to shame her into admitting the truth to his face? If the latter were true, it was certainly a cruel act on his part.

Her eyes were still focussed on the sleuth and, even if she knew what to say, her suddenly parched mouth was incapable of uttering any explanation. She wasn't entirely sure what he wanted to know, though and how she would even be able to explain. Only two people knew the truth, one of which stood motionless with fear before the detective. The other, Molly refused to even acknowledge.

"All records regarding Miss Molly Hooper only go back as far as four years ago."

Molly flinched at the sound of Sherlock's voice, as it crashed through the taut silence. To her further embarrassment, tears welled in her eyes, gathering at the bottom lashes.

"Before that, there is nothing, which forced me to call in a few favours, in order to deepen the search. That was when the name Mary Morstan came up."

She suddenly felt trapped. If she made a run for it, would he stop her? Molly had read and heard enough from John to already know Sherlock would win a race to the door, so didn't bother trying.

"I will admit the subsequent search regarding Mary's history was brief, but I saw nothing that would provide an explanation for the sudden change of name."

Could she bluff it? Could she just create a lie on the spot and hope he fell for it? Was it even _possible_ to trick someone like Sherlock Holmes?

"However…"

That word immediately filled her with dread and all hope sank with the following sentence.

"…by connecting several dots, I have been able to paint a vague picture of your past."

Molly swallowed the massive lump in her throat and found it painful to listen, as he turned the page and began reading from another list.

"Mary Morstan, born 1979 in Guildford, Surrey. No siblings. Parents happily married, until the untimely death of Harold Morstan in 2005. Attended the University of Surrey, passing her degree with flying colours. Looked set to follow in the footsteps of her mother's medical career. In late 2007, all trace of Mary Morstan disappears." Sherlock's eyes returned to Molly. "Which is when Molly Hooper was born." His eyes went back to the information displayed before him. "Molly moved to London at the beginning of 2008 and applied for the position of Specialist Registrar at St Bartholomew's Hospital, for which she was eagerly accepted. In 2011, Molly Hooper was the victim of a violent mugging, but the charges were dropped before a culprit could be found. A few months later, Molly suffered a mental breakdown and was granted sick leave for six months, before returning to work in March of 2012."

Molly couldn't breathe properly. It was horrifying to hear someone detail her life so methodically, like reading off a checklist for the contents of a holiday suitcase.

"Coincidentally, Hooper is the maiden name of Emelda Morstan, the mother of Mary Morstan. Another coincidence would be the rape trial, held at Guildford Magistrates' Court in 2007, in which the defendant was found not guilty." Sherlock clasped the open papers in his left hand and flipped the file shut, as nausea began to swirl around her stomach. "Which ceased to be a coincidence when I learnt that the victim was none other than Mary Morstan."

Why was he doing this? It was obvious she had nothing to do with the markings on the bodies, so why bother even speaking to her. What was he hoping to achieve? Those glowing eyes ensnared her once again.

"I am not in the habit of showing interest in others. For the most part, people bore me. You, however, do not act like other people. You try to hide it and the signs are often subtle, but I wouldn't have the reputation I possess without being able to spot them."

There was, for once, no arrogance in his claim. It was simply stated as fact, with a conviction that nobody would be able to dispute, because it was absolutely true.

"To most, you would appear as shy or lacking in self-esteem, but it is so much more than that. You avoid all possible human contact, yet invited me out for coffee, which suggests a will to participate in social interaction. However, when the tables were turned and I feigned interest, you cringed away like a frightened animal. The prospect of having lunch with someone you had recently met was clearly distressing and the revelation that this person was only using you to get to another didn't appear to bother you in the slightest; the bruise on John's neck worried you more."

Molly had paid witness to Sherlock's deductive monologues, but never been on the receiving end of his scrutiny before. It was both terrifying and fascinating.

"Your behaviour is often contradictory, which initially led me to two conclusions: either you only seek the company of others as a way to keep up appearances and appease others, such as your psychiatrist. Or, you genuinely want to interact with the human race, but there are certain mental barriers hindering your success. After learning what I have of your history, I now believe it is a combination of the two."

The faint metallic taste of blood met Molly's taste buds, meaning she was chewing her bottom lip far more furiously than she realised. This was excruciating and she hoped Sherlock would get to the point soon.

"It is because of your relationship with John that I've taken the time to study you, Molly. As my fr-um, flatmate, I have a vested interest in knowing about those he associates with." The trip in his words was caught by Molly and she had a sneaky suspicion he'd been about to call the man he lived with a friend, before correcting the "mistake". "I would rather eliminate any potential problems that might detract from my work."

Listening to what Sherlock was saying, the anxiety only increased. Was she a problem that needed eliminating? Did he want her to stop speaking to John; was that the whole point of this little chat? Was John even aware of any of this? God, she desperately hoped not! He'd go running in completely the opposite direction if he even got a whiff of how truly messed up her mind was. Of course, he was aware that not all the lights were switched on upstairs and guessed the other day about her desire to avoid physical contact, but he didn't know any of the reasons why or just how deeply they affected her.

"I know you are not the one responsible for these crimes," Sherlock stated, referring to the investigation they were both consultants on. "But I wanted to ensure my opinion of you was correct, not only because of your friendship with John, but because of your involvement in my current case." He fixed her with a penetrating stare, as though he were reading her like he had the file before him. "I need to know that the people around me are competent."

Molly's eyes almost popped out of her head during the silence that followed. Not only did the unexpected compliment surprise her, but the true motivation for him coming to speak to her was absolutely _not_ what she had predicted. Many scenarios ran through her mind upon the realisation of the conversation topic, such as Sherlock warning her to stay away from John, an accusation of her involvement in the case or many other things along that vein. The last thing she ever expected was for the detective's motive to be so selfish. It was so blindingly obvious now and she couldn't believe she hadn't seen it coming. He was ensuring she wouldn't be a bother to _him_. All that mattered to him was the work and, if she didn't pose any threat to that, she was perfectly fine in his eyes.

"I have not shared any of this with John," Sherlock informed her and she let out the breath of relief she didn't even realise she'd been holding. "I don't know what you may or may not have told him and it's not my business to interfere. Contrary to what he may think, I _am_ capable of tact."

The file was replaced in the dark recesses of his coat and he straightened up a little, signalling his intent to leave. Molly briefly wondered if she should say something, but he didn't appear to require her input and she had no idea what the appropriate words would be. He started walking away, but Molly remained where she had stood for the entirety of Sherlock's visit. The shock and bewilderment was almost overwhelming and she wasn't sure if kinetic energy would return to her limbs any time soon. It was a strong possibility that the cleaners would find her in that very position the next morning. The tall detective was by the door, his hand on the handle when he looked over his shoulder at the befuddled woman.

"Goodnight, Molly Hooper," he said, before finally exiting the laboratory.

**0**

If possible, Molly would have made that particular morning last at least three hours longer. The previous evening, paired with a night of very little sleep left her completely exhausted and she was tempted to simply phone in sick for work, but one sentence uttered by Sherlock Holmes echoed on a continuous loop in her brain.

" _I cannot afford to lose the best pathologist in this hospital to another mental breakdown."_

That meant Sherlock was relying on her and she desperately wanted to avoid letting him down. To have such a person hold that level of faith in her abilities was certainly something new and she wanted to ensure it remained that way. She couldn't remember the last time she felt so…well… _wanted_. And it was in safe way, one that asked absolutely nothing of her as a person. Sherlock didn't care about who she was or what she did in her private life, as long as she was doing her job well. The work. It was always about the work for Sherlock and it was his most admirable feature in her eyes.

Opening the wardrobe door, Molly sifted through the assortment of clothes displayed and, with her fatigue, sought comfort. There was a particular jumper she always relied on whenever the world got too much for her and she started pushing coat hanger after coat hanger aside, in order to find the article of clothing. She had a rough idea of its location in the wardrobe, so when she reached the last garment without locating the woollen grey top, confusion clouded her features. She was certain it should be there, but checked the laundry basket in the bathroom just to be sure.

"Where the Hell..?" she murmured to nobody in particular, as the empty basket interior stared up at her.

Walking back to the wardrobe, she double checked and, when the jumper still couldn't be found, Molly scanned the bedsit floor, in case it had been left lying around somewhere. The washing machine drum was also empty, so there was no other place for it to be. The whole situation was starting to get ridiculous now, as this was the third thing to disappear and she knew it was no longer a case of simple misplacement. She was happy to admit her exhaustion, but knew there was no reason for her jumper, hair bands and brush to have left the accommodation, so where could they bloody be? She was just about ready to start believing in the existence of Borrowers.

Settling for a different top, which, whilst comfy, wasn't anywhere near as _comforting_ as her intended item of clothing, she finally got herself dressed, left with twenty spare minutes to get her arse down to the Tube.

Running down the staircases of her block of flats, Molly pushed the main entrance door wide open and, out of the corner of her eye, saw someone hastily grab the handle before it shut. She sincerely hoped that was one of her neighbours. If she returned home that evening to find every one of her possessions missing, she'd know that karma had come to teach her a lesson.

The sound of raised voices greeted the tired woman, as she advanced towards one of St. Bart's many laboratories. She knew exactly who those voices belonged to, before ever seeing their faces.

"It's nine _in the morning_ ," John protested and, from the slight slouch in his usually rigid posture, Molly could tell she wasn't the only one experiencing symptoms of fatigue.

"Crime sleeps for no one, John," Sherlock replied, looking as energetic and alive as ever.

For a moment, Molly stood by the door and simply observed the pair. Apparently Sherlock often forwent days of sleep during a case and she wanted to know how he managed to retain so much energy. She knew firsthand that it wasn't as simple as getting used to the lack of rest, because she never slept well and _always_ felt tired. Coffee was often the only thing keeping her going. Was that the detective's secret, too, or did he have some other method? Perhaps the thrill of the cases was all the fuel he needed. She would have to enquire about it one day.

The pair were still arguing and John seemed rather unimpressed that his night had been spent looking at dead bodies, a notion Sherlock just couldn't grasp. He really was from another planet, sometimes.

Molly chose the moment before their quarrel got too heated to enter the lab and make her presence known. Sherlock barely acknowledged her, which was common practice and she had never felt so happy to be disregarded. He was acting as though the previous evening had never happened, which was just how she wanted it. John turned and offered a hello, to which she smiled in reply. His mannerisms were just as before, meaning Sherlock had remained true to his word.

"Molly," Sherlock began. He'd already settled himself at a table, which left her wondering what time they'd actually arrived. "I need to examine those bodies this morning."

"All three of them?" she checked, pulling her bag strap over her head. There was no need to clarify which bodies he was referring to.

"Yes. How soon can you have them ready?"

"Um, I'll have to check what other work is scheduled to be done in the morgue," she replied, whilst shrugging off her coat.

"I assume your colleagues are aware of the current murder investigation underway at Scotland Yard?"

"Err, yes," she confirmed, unable to guess where the conversation was going.

"Then I am sure they will understand."

"Maybe, but it's still best to check-"

"What else could possibly be more important than this?" Sherlock demanded, looking up at her sharply.

Molly was taken a little aback by the severity of his gaze. "W-well…I dunno…something might have arrived…unexpectedly?"

"It's fine!" John interjected, throwing a glare his companion's way. " _They_ aren't going anywhere and _you_ -" he pointed a finger in the other man's direction. "-can finally exercise a little bloody patience."

"Of course," the consulting detective muttered, his words dripping with sarcasm. "And when the family of the next victim come to identify their loved one, we can just explain that to them, can't we?"

"Since when did _you_ care about victims' loved ones?" John challenged, his tiredness making him bite far more easily.

"I don't," Sherlock replied, looking up through his lashes at the doctor. "So it is all the more ironic that _I_ am trying to prevent further murders, whilst you worry about a staff member's _schedule_."

"I swear to God, Sherlock-"

"It's alright," Molly cut in, wanting to prevent another murder from happening right before her eyes. "I can check right now. It's early, so we-and everyone's schedules-should be okay."

"Thank you," Sherlock said, his eyes falling back to whatever he had lying on the desk before him.

"Careful," John remarked. "You might actually appear _gracious_!"

Sherlock ignored the comment and John rubbed his eyes, before declaring that he was in desperate need of caffeine. He followed Molly out of the lab.

"You know," she began. "If you're that tired, there's a staff room downstairs with sofas to kip on."

"Thanks, but I'll be alright," he unsuccessfully tried to convince her. "I should be used to it by now, but I just don't understand how he does it sometimes!"

"Me neither," she agreed. "I had a crap night's sleep last night and certainly don't have a spring in _my_ step."

"It's got to be some sort of residual after effect from his junkie days."

The remark was so quiet that, for a moment, Molly thought she'd imagined it or heard him wrong, but, when she looked back at John, realisation had struck his features, meaning she _definitely_ heard him right. His mouth formed an O, as colour flushed his cheeks and his expression was at once so ridiculous and adorable that Molly burst into laughter. Her amusement inspired his and their mirth mingled, until they were both in fits of giggles. It probably shouldn't have been so funny, but fatigue could affect a person in a variety of ways. For them, it had chosen a more positive route that left them eventually wiping tears away from their eyes.

"Fucking Hell!" John wheezed, trying to control himself.

Molly was doing the same and, when another member of staff entered the corridor they were stood in, he gave the pair a bemused look, before leaving again. This resulted in a joint howl of hilarity from the hopeless couple, upon which Molly immediately clamped her hands over her mouth to prevent further outbursts. It felt so good just to laugh! Even if there was no real reason for it and everyone else would write them off as barmy, she loved the rush of endorphins the enjoyment sent around her body and, if this was the result of exhaustion, she would endure it in future with far more grace.

Finally, when the pain in their faces got too much to bear, they knew it was time to calm down. It was a gradual process and Molly ended up pressing against her cheeks to prevent further smiling, but they got there in the end. John let out a deep breath.

"Well, that was fun!" he declared. "Sherlock's not gonna be so happy, though. How long have we been here?"

"Oh, God!" She replied, a glint of alarm sparking in her expression.

"I already told him he can bloody wait!" John asserted. "He'll just fix us with that creepy glare of his and come up with a comment almost as sharp as his cheekbones."

Well, that remark just set the pair of them off again and left Molly wondering how on Earth she was going to keep a straight face during her next encounter with Mr Holmes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aww, a little levity to end an otherwise serious chapter. Thanks for reading and I hope you all enjoyed it. Let me know how think the story's going so far and I'll be back soon :)


	13. Chapter 13

** Chapter Thirteen **

Friday.

It was Molly's first day off for over a week and she wasn't looking forward to the free time. Without the distraction of the morgue to keep her mind busy, the pathologist feared for the tenuous grip she had on sanity, and it didn't help that her latest appointment with Ella Thompson was in a couple of hours. The last few therapy sessions she'd had pretty much followed the same routine, with the doctor asking how the patient was doing and the patient reciting all the memorable moments that had occurred since their last meeting. Molly wondered if perhaps her time with the psychiatrist was coming to an end. The thought wasn't especially troubling, which probably said it all, really.

Unfortunately, simply not attending the session would do far more harm than good, so Molly was forced to prepare herself that morning and head out the door at half past nine. The weather was especially good, with the sun already making its presence known and not a cloud threatened to block its rays. There was still a very slight chill in the wind, but nothing that a light jacket or thick jumper couldn't keep at bay. Molly hung a scarf loosely around her neck just in case.

The therapy session went far better than Molly could have imagined. Doctor Thompson was positive about her patient's progress, although there was still work to be done. Molly's nightmares hadn't stopped. However, the psychiatrist felt that many other aspects of her condition had improved enough to warrant less regular sessions and the patient was in full agreement. Lingering guilt of never being completely upfront about the cause of her mental breakdown increased during moments of praise and this time was no different. Unfortunately, Molly could never bring herself to be honest about what had happened, so dwelling on the guilt wouldn't do a thing to help.

"Molly," Thompson said, during the last five minutes of their session. "Is there anything else you would like to talk about?"

Molly shook her head.

"Nothing at all?" the doctor checked.

"Um…" Molly shifted in her seat. "No?" _Apart from things going disappearing from my bedsit_. She didn't say that aloud, knowing paranoid delusions were hardly the sign of a mentally well person. It had started to bother her, though. A pair of pyjama bottoms had joined the list of missing items.

"Don't worry," Thompson chuckled gently. "It wasn't a trick question. I just wanted to make sure."

Molly smiled in reply, her posture loosening just a little. She always did get nervous whenever Ella started asking questions, like she knew the secrets her patient was keeping. Of course that wasn't the case, because Molly had never told a soul and the only one to figure out the truth was Sherlock, who had absolutely no reason to speak to her psychiatrist.

At eleven o' clock, Thompson let the young woman leave and their next session was scheduled for a month later, although Molly could always call the psychiatrist for an earlier appointment should the need arise. The thanks she gave her doctor was genuine, because she really did appreciate the fact that some people out there were willing to spend their days helping others through whatever turmoil affected their lives, but there wasn't a hint of regret in the increased time span that would now separate their interaction.

Leaving the building, Molly pulled out her phone and saw three missed text messages on the display. They were all from the same number and her curiosity was immediately piqued. Sherlock rarely contacted her and, on the odd occasions it happened, the texts were always work related. Opening them in chronological order, she saw that this instance was no different.

**I'm going over the post mortem reports. Come to 221b if convenient. SH**

Adrenaline began speeding up the beat of her heart. Had he found something or was he stuck? Whatever it was, the urgency couldn't have been too great, as he would have ordered her presence, rather than politely request it. She opened the second text message.

**Come even if inconvenient. This is important. SH**

Okay, so maybe it _was_ urgent. Molly checked the reception time and discovered the message was only half an hour old. Opening the last of the texts, she was confronted with a threat of being dragged out of her home if she continued to ignore him, which prompted an immediate response from the pathologist.

**I'm on my way.**

The reply from Sherlock was instantaneous.

**Where have you been? SH**

Even through text, she could hear the irritated tone of his voice and a note of indignance crept into the message she sent back.

**I was with my psychiatrist!**

**You're wasting time. SH**

"Impossible man!" Molly grumbled to herself, as she started her journey to almost the other side of London. Not five minutes had passed when her phone beeped again.

**Bring sugar. We've run out. SH**

**0**

A cab ride, detour to St. Bart's and a visit to the nearest corner shop later, Molly found herself stood outside the home of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Apprehension bubbled in her stomach, as she realised the barrier she was about to cross. She and John had been friends for many months and spent countless afternoons gassing the time away, accompanied by numerous cups of tea or coffee, but never had they visited one another's abodes. She wondered if he was even home. Sherlock might be alone for the day, which could've resulted in the request for her company. Would John mind her being there? She wasn't sure, because, as affable and easygoing as he could present himself, there was a side of John that fiercely guarded his privacy. She hated the thought of pissing him off, but Sherlock had demanded she be there and, seeing as she'd made the effort to gather all the items the detective required, there was no point turning away now.

Checking the two bells on the right of the door, she was forced to guess which might be the correct one and prayed that, as her finger pushed in the higher of the two buttons, she wasn't confronted with an angry neighbour who had chosen that very morning to lie in.

It took a few minutes, in which Molly wondered if Sherlock had changed his mind and left the flat for the day without bothering to tell her. Just as she was about to ring the bell again, sounds were heard from behind the large black door, before it creaked open.

An older lady stood in the doorway, polite curiosity painting her features. She was roughly the same height as Molly, with short, greying hair framing an open, friendly face. Glasses hung around her neck on a chain and, if the pathologist had to guess the woman's age, she would have placed it around the late sixties or early seventies.

"Hello, dear," the lady greeted her. "Can I help you?"

"Oh, I must have rung the wrong bell," Molly said, grimacing at her own error. "I was ringing for 221B."

"No, you got the right one, dear," the lady assured her. "Are you here to see Sherlock?"

"Yes," Molly smiled sheepishly. She wasn't entirely sure about the inquisitive look the woman was giving her. There seemed to be a suggestion of something else within the gaze, but she couldn't quite figure it out.

"Well, come on in then, dear," the woman insisted, encouraging Molly's entrance with a circular motion of her hand. "It's just up the stairs."

Molly accepted the invitation and began climbing the carpeted staircase, unable to keep her eyes from taking in the surroundings. It had never occurred to the young woman to wonder what kind of home a man like Sherlock would keep, but, now that she was about to find out, all sorts of questions raced through her mind. Would it be messy or neat? Would he have lots of furniture, or prefer a clutter-free environment? What period of furniture would he go for?

"Are you here for a case?"

The lady's voice cut through Molly's musings.

"He's very good, you know." Apparently, Molly hadn't been required to answer the previous question. "That mind of his moves faster than a freight train, but, I must warn you, he's not always the most sensitive of men. Tends to like people to get to the point quite quickly, if you know what I mean. Bit like my husband, really. Never one for chit chat. Too busy going off, doing this and that, bustling about. Patience of a toddler…"

The woman continued and Molly suspected she was talking to herself, more than anyone else, but refrained from interrupting. She was still nervous about actually spending time in Sherlock's home, so couldn't spare much attention for anything else.

Eventually, Molly reached the top of the first staircase, which led to a door emblazoned with a large golden B.

"Here we are," the lady said needlessly. "Just go right in and Sherlock will be right with you."

Molly gave a smile of thanks, before turning and lifting her fist. A knock hadn't been far behind, but the door was shoved open by the surprisingly strong force of the lady behind.

"Oh, don't bother being polite about it, dear," she gently chided. "He certainly doesn't!"

"Mrs Hudson," came the deep rumbling tone of Sherlock's voice. "Do try not to harass visitors."

"I was answering the door for you, you ungrateful wretch. A young lady's here to see you."

Molly was shocked to hear such an attitude come from such a pleasant older woman, but she also admired the fiery spirit. Whoever this Mrs Hudson was, she clearly didn't take any of the detective's shit. A small smile spread across Molly's lips.

"Ah, Molly!" Sherlock greeted. "Did you bring the sugar? The tea has been somewhat lacking this morning."

A look was thrown Mrs Hudson's way, which she defied with a glare of her own.

"You have legs, don't you?" She challenged.

"Well, I'm sure the people of London will appreciate your disregard for their safety and wellbeing."

Mrs Hudson rolled her eyes, as she made her way to the kitchen. "They would have survived a five minute trip to the shops, I'm sure."

"They'd fare much better if you went for me," he argued, sounding more and more childlike with each remark.

"If I've said it once, I've said it a thousand times: I'm your landlady, _not_ your housekeeper!"

"Says the woman currently making a pot of tea," Sherlock murmured under his breath.

A raised eyebrow and sharp look was hurled across the lounge from the woman to the younger man and Molly couldn't help giggling at the scene playing before her. If she hadn't heard the word landlady, she would have sworn they were mother and son, with the way they bickered. It was a little bizarre to see Sherlock in such a normal domestic situation, but, somehow didn't seem completely out of place. Obvious affection lingered beneath the squabbling.

"Tell me he didn't send you up the shop for him!"

Molly span to see John entering the flat, a disgruntled expression on his face.

"London wouldn't have survived if he hadn't, apparently," Mrs Hudson informed him, as she held the kettle underneath the tap.

"Does it _matter_?" Sherlock cried, obviously fed up of the topic of conversation. "We have far more important things to be getting on with."

A hand brushed Molly's back and she realised John was now beside her, reaching for the carrier bag dangling from her right hand.

"Let me take that," he offered, before joining his landlady in the kitchen.

Molly hadn't had chance to get a proper look at John's face when he walked into the room, so was forced to study his body language to see if her presence in his home annoyed him. As far as she could tell, the only thing fuelling his irritation just now had been Sherlock requesting she buy sugar, but her paranoia always flared up during moments of apprehension.

"Do you take sugar, dear?" Mrs Hudson asked their guest.

"Hmm? Oh, no thank you," she replied, still lingering close to the doorway, although she didn't know why. Perhaps it was the new environment, her prior (and persistent) nervousness about the situation or the sheer bemusement at what was happening around her, but she felt the need to remain close to an exit.

Molly didn't realise, but Sherlock was watching her out the corner of his eye, studying and analysing her behaviour. What he made of it, nobody would be able to guess, but he wasn't the only one to sense her discomfort. John looked over at the awkward young woman and his eyebrows lifted a little, silently asking if she was alright. Molly nodded, hoping he'd believe her, but, just like the last time he enquired about her wellbeing, moisture gathered in the corners of her eyes and she took in a couple of deep breaths to calm herself. She didn't want to start crying, not in front a person she had just met and for no apparent reason.

_Don't worry,_ the sensible portion of her brain soothed. _There's nothing to worry about. You'll be fine, John's fine, everything's fine. Just breathe and everyth-_

"Molly," the boom of Sherlock's voice shunted all thought aside. "Did you remember the photos?"

A blank expression sat on her face for a moment, before she processed the words that had travelled across the room towards her.

"O-oh, um…yes, yes I did."

Grateful for the distraction, she hurried over to where Sherlock stood in the centre of the kitchen. The table before him was a shambles of everything from paperwork to test tubes and, if this was standard practice for his work station during cases, she wasn't entirely sure how he managed to actually solve any of them. Hopefully he wouldn't require her to work alongside him. Molly didn't exactly thrive in disorganised surroundings.

Dumping her bag upon the messy table, Molly searched for the well wrapped pictures he required and offered them to the detective. The text requesting them had come a few minutes after the one asking her to purchase sugar and left her periodically checking her phone every quarter of an hour, in case another request came up during the journey to the flat.

Although Sherlock possessed copies of the post mortem reports, they hadn't included photos and she'd assumed he wouldn't need them after carrying out his own examination of the bodies. There must have been something puzzling him, though, if he needed to study the bodies further and even asked for _her_ help. Molly wasn't at all surprised by his bafflement, because the details of the case were frustratingly vague. There weren't any clues that the pathologist saw to lead them any closer to the culprit and she could only imagine how frustrating it was for Sherlock.

A cup was placed beside her bag on the table and Molly looked up at John, whose eyes were fixed upon the pictures in his flatmate's hands. He looked just as confused by the case as every other member of the investigation crew and she had a suspicion it would end up being one of those that remained forever unsolved. It was sad, but, unfortunately, not all that uncommon.

Mrs Hudson didn't remain in the flat for long and, when she left, the real work began. Sherlock, Molly and John began pouring through all the reports, records and findings gathered so far and the pathologist's main task was to fill in the (admittedly few) gaps in Sherlock's knowledge.

As they worked, Molly took the opportunity to assess Sherlock's home. It didn't meet, exceed or fail any expectations, because she hadn't known _what_ to expect. The furniture filling it was a mish-mash of styles and periods and every available space was cluttered with papers or books of various descriptions. The windows looking out on the street below were the only source of illumination and the conjoined kitchen/lounge possessed a dark, broody quality, with long, dark shadows enveloping the corners. Molly actually liked the gaudy wallpaper decorating the walls and, after her assessment, decided the place perfectly fit the two inhabitants.

"Is that a skull?" she queried, when her eyes fell on the mantelpiece.

"Yeah," John answered, matter-of-factly. "It's Sherlock's, believe it or not."

"Any idea who it was?"

"His last flatmate," John quipped quietly, with a smirk.

Molly ducked her head, as a smile broke out. She wasn't sure if the man in question had heard the remark and, as enjoyable as it was to watch, didn't want to encourage any further bickering between the two.

Several hours passed, as the trio continued working, with each searching desperately for the faintest of clues to help them. Molly was absorbed in the task of scouring each line in her reports, even though she must have read them several times already, with John doing the same, although he was reading up on the victims' personal lives and circumstances of death. She'd imagined Sherlock to be doing the same, but, glancing up quickly from the kitchen table where she sat, a gasp of disbelief escaped her lips.

He'd fallen asleep! Right there, in the middle of the living room, with his lanky frame moulded into the shape of the armchair, he'd nodded off! She and John were practically making their eyeballs fall out and Sherlock bloody Holmes had decided to take a nap! Her blood began boiling and she desperately wished her confidence levels were high enough to berate him for such behaviour. Was this a regular thing? Perhaps that was how he got through the periods of forgoing sleep, by power napping when the opportunity arose.

"John," she whispered, trying to get his attention without making too much noise.

The doctor looked up. "Hmm?"

"Is Sherlock asleep?" she mouthed, pointing her highlighter pen in the slumbering detective's direction.

John turned his attention to his still flatmate, before giving a quick chuckle.

"No," he explained. "He's using his mind palace."

A quirk of her eyebrow forced him to explain.

"It's a memory technique. A sort of mental map. He plots a map with a location-it doesn't have to be a real place-and the idea is that you deposit memories there that, theoretically, you could never forget; you'll never forget anything, all you have to do is find your way back to it."

Molly leaned forward, intrigued. "So this imaginary place could be anything? A house or street?"

"That's right."

"But, you said palace. You said he calls it a palace."

"Yeah, well he would, wouldn't he?" John muttered with a barely concealed eye roll.

Molly smiled and they returned to their tasks, as Sherlock continued his meditation. However, it wasn't long before things were brought to a halt.

"You know what," John began. "I'm getting nowhere. Sherlock!"

"Yes?" came the slow reply from the armchair.

"Anything yet?"

There was a long pause, before a deep sigh and Sherlock swiftly rose from the chair. "Nothing," he replied, a trace of sulkiness in his tone. "There's nothing for it, but to wait. I hate waiting!" he hissed.

"Don't we all," John agreed, dropping the papers in his hand. "What time is it?"

Molly looked at the watch adorning her left wrist. "Almost three!" The surprise at how much time had passed etched its way into her answer. She'd barely even noticed.

"Well, I dunno about anyone else, but I'm starving!"

A low rumble vibrated in John's stomach, emphasising his comment. When had he last eaten? Molly had to admit she was in agreement, because the gentle pangs of hunger were also gently contracting her abdomen, so she began a scan for the items that had been removed from her bag. It was a small number, so it didn't take her long to locate them all.

"What do you fancy?"

Molly didn't realise she was being spoken to, meaning the question went unanswered. When her name was called, she looked up to see John watching her expectantly.

"Sorry?" she said, halfway through gathering up the photos she had brought.

"I asked what you fancied eating," John explained.

The young woman's features arranged themselves in an expression of confusion, which only served to fuel the amused smile on her friend's face.

"For dinner?" he clarified.

"Dinner?" she finally caught on. "Oh! U-um…well, I-I don't want to impose-"

"Luckily, you're skills in pathology far outweigh those in conversation," Sherlock remarked.

Molly's cheeks flushed in embarrassment and her eyes fell to the table.

""Well, they're certainly better than yours," John countered, in Molly's defence, before speaking to her once again. "So..?"

"Well, if you're sure…" she double checked, looking from him to Sherlock and back again. "I'll have whatever you're having."

Sherlock declined the offer of food, claiming he didn't have time to eat, although, for the rest of the time Molly spent at the flat, he didn't do anything more strenuous than use the bathroom. In the end, a good old fashioned meal of fish and chips was decided upon and the pathologist and the doctor headed for the nearest takeaway to pick up three portions. The third was for Mrs Hudson, who joined the trio for an unexpected evening of food, drink and conversation.

Molly couldn't remember an evening so relaxed and carefree. Mrs Hudson was every bit as charming and lovely as her first impression promised and it was a novelty to observe John in his own environment. The last time Molly spent an evening with someone was during overtime at the morgue, but an evening socialising hadn't happened for longer than she cared to admit. Sherlock spent the entire time hunched over a laptop in the corner of the lounge, whilst John reclined on the sofa and their guest curled up in the armchair not occupied by the landlady.

It was almost ten o' clock when anyone bothered to check the face of a clock or watch and Molly wished time would slow down sometimes. She hated the thought of leaving the warm, cosy Baker Street flat, to return to a crummy bedsit that promised nothing but nightmares and solitude. Sadly, she couldn't stay in the armchair forever, so uncoiled her limbs to allow them space to stretch, before getting to her feet.

Mrs Hudson, now aware that the guest wasn't a client, insisted she return as soon as she was able. Apparently, it was nice having some decent female company for a change. There wasn't much Molly could do but accept the invitation, although she was in no way prepared for the sudden hug she received from the landlady. Over Mrs Hudson's shoulder, the pathologist saw an apologetic smirk cross John's face.

Not wanting to wait for a Tube train at such a late hour, Molly booked a taxi and John escorted her down to the door that led onto the street. Wrapping the scarf around her neck, an internal battle raged about whether she had the courage to thank John for what she considered to be a good day. Really, the thanks should have gone to Sherlock for inviting her in the first place, but she doubted the cantankerous man would even care.

"Thanks for dinner," she eventually managed to say. "I had a lovely day, even if some of it was spent looking at dead bodies."

"Yeah, it was nice," John agreed. "Not the dead bodies bit, I mean. Although, I'm sorry that Sherlock bullied you into working on your day off."

"No, no, it's fine. I wanted to help. This was probably one of the best days off I've had for a while, actually." She hadn't originally meant to admit that, but forgetting to think before speaking was an occupational hazard of becoming comfortable in somebody's presence.

John laughed. "Really? Christ, now I feel sorry for you!" He paused for a moment and considered his words. "No, you know what? It's probably one of mine too; if I had a job, that is."

Molly giggled and felt a rush of gratitude for John's ability to instantly make her feel relaxed. Even if she said or did something that made her feel stupid, he never seemed to judge her for it.

A black cab pulled up outside and it felt like a harbinger of doom for Molly. She really, really, really, really, _really_ didn't want to go home.

"Well, remember what Mrs Hudson said," John reminded her. "You're welcome here any time. She's not the only one who could do with a change in company." He glanced at the taxi. "Let me know you get back safely."

Molly's glance followed his, before her head span back to face him. "I will," she vowed. Then, in a pure, spontaneous, crazy moment of absolute insanity, Molly abandoned everything her less than sane self warned her against and actually moved towards another human being to initiate physical contact. She didn't acknowledge what she was doing, didn't think at all and, before she knew it, John's arms encircled her to accept the hug she had offered.

It was brief and Molly couldn't bring herself to look in his direction after pulling away. She did manage to call out goodbye to him, before hastily jumping into the awaiting vehicle, before it pulled away.

It wasn't until she got home that her cheeks finally stopped burning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this chapter was more character development than plot, I'm afraid. Just out of interest, what're everyone's thoughts on how this story is going? Is it all flowing properly? I'm hoping the developing friendship between John and Molly is moving fast enough, without seeming rushed or unrealistic.


	14. 14

** Chapter Fourteen **

The Case of The Posthumous Tattoos was forced to sit on the backburner. No more bodies arrived and nothing new could be found amongst the sparse evidence provided. Sherlock and John took on case after case and Molly read about each one in John's blog, but got the best gossip from the man himself whenever their paths crossed at the hospital, or she met him for coffee during rare moments of downtime.

Honouring the promise made to both him and his landlady, Molly did return to 221B, but the instigator of it, once again, was Sherlock. Apparently, his first request to have her deliver items from work to his home had encouraged him to think it could be a regular arrangement, so she was often dropping off or picking things up for him to study and experiment on.

John tried on many occasions to remind Sherlock that she _wasn't_ his personal courier service, but Molly truly didn't mind. It gave her the perfect excuse to keep coming back, seeing as she was far too cowardly to actually visit of her own accord. She loved the paradoxical atmosphere of the flat, with the way it could at once be chaotic, yet relaxing and amusement was never in short supply when observing the interaction between the detective and his blogger.

Mrs Hudson, or Martha, as Molly was soon instructed to refer to the homeowner as, often made her presence known during the visits. Despite the insistence of not being a housekeeper, it became very clear to the pathologist that the older woman secretly enjoyed fussing over her two lodgers, whether it be giving the kitchen a _proper_ clean ("men are bloody _useless_ at this sort of thing!"), or simply making a cup of tea. She speedily wormed her way into Molly's affections, too and it surprised the young woman how easily she grew accustomed to the hugs enforced upon her. Molly had briefly frozen the first couple of times, but now accepted the embraces and even let herself tentatively _enjoy_ them. It was a reminder that not all physical contact was intended to hurt or maim.

The same happened with John, as well. Ever since her bravery at the end of the first visit to the flat, hugging farewell to the man had become standard practice. Of course, the first few felt awkward to begin with, but it soon fell into a routine. It filled her with a sense of pride to know that she now had two people on a newly developed list of those she could bear touching.

God, that sounded awful!

Perhaps the most surprising side effect of all was weight gain. Since she started spending time at Baker Street, Molly had sampled probably every single recipe Martha Hudson knew and it was definitely a good thing that the two men ran about solving crimes so often, otherwise they'd both be the size of houses. The weight gain was slight, as her visits were, at most, once or twice a week, but it was enough to add a few pounds to her slender frame.

Just as her presence had increased in Sherlock and John's home, their reputation and fame had heightened drastically thanks to the doctor's blog. Their caseload tripled and, if possible, their visits to the hospital had become more frequent. Quite often accompanying them was DI Greg Lestrade, a long suffering acquaintance of Sherlock's. Molly had met him a couple of times before, but, with the increase in cases, it meant the Inspector's workload grew, thus his presence was far more common these days. She learnt that he was quite a nice bloke, although definitely more of a man's man. Like Mrs Hudson, he didn't have a high tolerance for Sherlock's confrontational ways, but there was admiration for the consulting detective in the _proper_ detective's manner. Molly wouldn't dare call Lestrade a proper detective within Sherlock's hearing, though.

As the weeks passed, the roots of positivity began to embed themselves inside the pathologist. They were small and she was afraid to let them grow too fast. In fact, she refused to let them grow at all, because the fear of enjoying them too much was so great. Molly was happy to simply know they were there, ready for the day when she was finally better, finally _normal_. For the first time in a very long time, that day actually looked as though it might just happen.

**0**

An errant beam of sunlight filtered into the dark room and eventually splayed across the face of the sleeping woman. The muscles of her eyelids twitched and eyelashes fluttered, as her body clawed itself to wakefulness. It was a hefty battle, as slumber wasn't willing to let this sleeper escape its clutches so easily. After all, she wasn't the most regular of visitors to the land of nod.

Molly finally joined the world of the living and had to rub immense amounts of sleepy dust from the corners of her blurry eyes. Once she was able to distinguish the world around her, Molly felt the need to stretch all of her limbs as far as they could go and did so, enjoying each satisfying pop of her tendons, as she made lazy circles with her hands and feet.

That was when something struck her. Metaphorically, that is. Her brain slammed into full consciousness and she levered herself upright, quickly regretting the speed of her action. Checking the time on the phone beside her bed, she saw that it was six thirty in the morning, but had to glance up at the clock on the wall to ensure it was correct. It couldn't be! Surely something was off, but the ever rising sun in the sky outside her window proved it was indeed the next morning. Incomprehension and surprise ran circles around each other, as the pathologist tried to make sense of what had happened.

Molly Hooper had managed to get a full night's sleep.

She didn't move for a while after the realisation arrived; she didn't want to ruin anything. She didn't want _this_ to end up morphing into a cruel nightmare and find herself screaming awake at some ungodly hour in the night. After almost ten minutes of waiting patiently in silence, Molly was ready to admit she wasn't dreaming. She'd done it, she'd _really_ done it! No nightmare, no insomnia, nothing to remind her of the fact that her brain refused to function like a regular human being.

 _So that's what it feels like,_ her subconscious marvelled, having forgotten the sensation of waking _after_ daylight hit. A warm, groggy feeling enveloped her, recognised as the lingering effects of sleep and Molly had to admit she'd never felt so rested, so lethargic, so…

…bloody _awful_!

That was the moment Molly Hooper discovered the truth behind the claims that the more sleep you got, the worse you often felt. It was a complete myth that a night of full, uninterrupted sleep turned you into Mr Motivator. Molly wanted nothing more than to remain right where she was and act like a complete vegetable. Unfortunately, the morgue of St Bartholomew's beckoned and she was duty bound to answer the call.

Reluctantly hefting her suddenly extremely heavy quilt off her body, she languidly climbed out of bed and allowed herself one more stretch. She began to become aware of the dull ache caressing her limbs and wondered how she'd ever managed to function before insomnia claimed her life.

She lived in hope that a hot shower and strong coffee would alleviate the symptoms. If not, she'd pack her extra thick scarf for use as a makeshift pillow, just in case.

**0**

"Well, that was interesting!" John declared, striding into the laboratory.

Molly glanced up from the three Petri dishes scattered on the table and saw that her friend was alone, which wasn't a regular occurrence. He closed the distance between them quickly with his regimented gait and Molly found herself intrigued.

"Do tell," she encouraged, as he stopped beside her. There was a light smattering of rain decorating the shoulders of his coat and glistening amidst the silver blonde of his hair. A typically showery late November day, then.

John let out a quick laugh, which certainly set the tone for the tale he was about to tell.

"To cut a long story very short," he began, sucking in a breath. "I took Sherlock Holmes Christmas shopping."

Molly blinked. A _lot_. There was no other response she could give to such a paragraph.

"Umm…okay," she replied slowly. "And the long story is..?"

The dishes were completely forgotten, as John began to detail one of the most bizarre and spectacularly chaotic shopping trips she had ever heard of and he could barely contain his frustration, not only at his socially awkward friend, but at himself for even hoping such a mundane, everyday task could have been accomplished with the detective. For her part, Molly was trying desperately hard not to burst into fits of laughter at the image of Sherlock shouting at someone dressed as Father Christmas and she couldn't even imagine what the detective would have been like as a child.

It was a rare occasion when the doctor failed to join in her laughter, but this was one of them.

"I'm sorry," she apologised, ensuring her hand remained over her mouth, to stifle any laughter that attempted to escape. "But I have the most remarkable images going through my mind."

Seeing the pent up hilarity threatening to burst on her face, John soon relented at let out one of his "Oh, I give up!" giggles.

"God, he is such a pain in the arse!" John sighed.

"He is that," she agreed, still fighting an honourable battle against laughter. "Which is why I can't feel too sympathetic, as you _know_ what he's like. Where is he now?"

"At home," John replied. "Christ knows what he's up to, though. I don't think he's left the flat in three days."

"One of his funny moods again?"

Molly had witnessed a couple of Sherlock's lethargic phases. It usually involved him spending several days either in bed, on the sofa or wandering aimlessly around the flat in nothing but a bed sheet. She'd once entered the lounge, to see him sound asleep, whilst sat on one of the kitchen chairs. It was strange to see for her, having only really interacted with the detective during investigations. During those times, he seemed to possess the energy of an exploding firework, dashing about, as his mind went ten to the dozen. Perhaps, during the periods between cases, when there was nothing to occupy his attention, he just crashed. Prolonged periods without food and sleep could do that to a person, which Molly knew first hand.

"Yeah," the doctor confirmed. "I was actually sent out for biscuits, but decided to fit in a walk as well."

John peered over at the dishes in front of the pathologist and cringed at the sight of the odd, greenish substance lining the one nearest him. He chose not to enquire as to the origin of the unappetising sample.

"Since I'm here," he said, his eyes rising once again to meet Molly's face. "I was wondering what your plans were near to Christmas. I'm thinking of arranging a little get-together at Baker Street…y'know, to cheer up Mrs Hudson. She doesn't really have any family around and I thought it'd be nice for her."

Molly thought it was a very sweet idea and was happy to accept his offer. She hadn't received any other invitations and it was a far better option than moping around her home alone during the festive season. She began to ponder what sort of gifts to get the residents of 221B and instantly predicted Sherlock would be the most difficult one to buy for. What did you buy a consulting detective super genius? Given the revelation of his hatred towards traditional Christmas festivities, she wondered if there was an unused organ lying around somewhere for him to experiment on.

"Excellent," John said upon her acceptance of his invitation. "Well, I've got to go. His Highness had demanded his biscuits."

Molly smiled. "Couldn't possibly keep him waiting, could we?"

"I daren't imagine the state of the flat if I did," John grimaced.

"Tell Martha I said hello," Molly requested.

"I can't get used to hearing Mrs Hudson's first name," he remarked, before looking a little hurt. "She's never asked _me_ to call her that."

Molly simply replied with a look of superiority. "I'd call it good taste."

"Favouritism, more like," he retorted.

"Jealousy does not become you, Dr Watson."

"Better than being a teacher's pet," he heckled.

"Don't be such a sourpuss," Molly commanded. "You're making the samples turn."

"Looks like they already have."

Molly gave John a gentle push. "Leave them alone!" she laughed. "Go and get your biscuits."

John said his goodbyes and Molly was left alone in the lab once again, although a smile was plastered upon the lips that had once been composed in a straight line of concentration.

**0**

What a long day it had been! It was always surprising how much energy staring at data on a computer screen required and Molly had spent an entire day doing so. She was glad to give her eyes a rest, as she made her way towards the hanger where her coat hung. Pulling it off the hook, she slipped her arms through the thick sleeves, before wrapping her long, multicoloured scarf around her neck. It had been quite some time since anything resembling bright had emerged from her wardrobe in over a year and it was oddly liberating to have even a small item of clothing about her person so vibrant.

Resting the bag strap on her left shoulder, she placed her phone into the right jacket pocket and was surprised to feel something soft brush against her knuckles. Removing her phone and transferring it the left hand, she pulled out the unidentified item and couldn't believe her eyes. Her hairbands! There were at least half a dozen bands of assorted colours gathered together in a haphazard bundle and she stared at them, like a caveman seeing fire for the very first time. She wondered how they had got in there, as she was sure she'd checked her coat pockets at some point. Perhaps not.

As the event of losing those hairbands had happened several months ago, Molly didn't really spare it much thought. If her brush and pyjama bottoms would also be so kind as to make a reappearance, all the better! Shoving the bands back into her coat pocket, her phone quickly followed and, after a last check that she had everything she needed, Molly exited the lab, letting the door swing shut behind her.

The rain had stopped since John's visit, for which she was eternally grateful and she sped down the street, towards the nearest Underground subway entrance, before the drizzle began again. In her haste, Molly Hooper failed to notice the person across the street, watching her every move. If she had, the garment adorning their head may have been familiar, as it had crossed her vision several times in the past few months. She may have even recognised the person as the man who had skirted past her at the crossing in spring. If her powers of observation had been more up to scratch back in the earlier part of the year, she might have even remembered the onlooker as the person she inadvertently admitted into her building back then.

Sadly, as always, Molly had more important things on her mind and the stranger's study went unnoticed.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hellooooooo! So, the famous (or infamous, depending on how you look at it) Christmas scene has arrived! I wasn't sure initially how to write it and I'm a bit nervous about how people will find it. Hopefully, you'll all enjoy, so I'll shut up now and let you all read.

** Chapter Fifteen **

It had been so long since Molly Hooper had to make an effort for an evening that she forgot she even had any evening clothes in her wardrobe. There was nothing too exquisite in her collection of garments, as, even before all the mental turmoil, the pathologist had never been the most glamorous of women, but she was sure a vaguely nice dress hung in there somewhere. A lot of searching eventually turned up a simple, knee-length black dress with spaghetti straps, but she continued looking until she found a cardigan or jacket to pair it with: there was no way in Hell she was going to wear the dress alone.

A hint of growing confidence made itself known when she chose to wear a bit of lipstick, but nerves sent it crashing back down when her eyes graced the bag of gifts waiting by the door. Would everyone be happy with what she'd bought? Molly had gone down the generic, safe route and would forever love Boots for their festive three-for-two sale. She may have got to know the three Baker Street residents better in the past few months, but there were a couple she still didn't know enough about to be confident of their likes or dislikes.

Six forty five arrived and Molly gave herself a last look in the bathroom mirror. She was in a dress, her hair was loose and she was even wearing lipstick! It was alright, though, because she wore a cardigan that could button up if need be, a hairband around her wrist to tie back her mane and even tissues in her bag to wipe off the lipstick, should her self-consciousness threaten to overwhelm. She'd even chosen knee-high boots to keep as much of herself covered up as possible. If only John, Sherlock and Martha were present, she reckoned she'd be okay, but there was no telling who else may have been invited.

The taxi arrived and Molly took deep breaths during the ride to Baker Street. She had to remain calm. She'd been to the flat plenty of times, so there was no need to start panicking now. Rather than panic about what _might_ happen, she had to focus on enjoying a Christmas that wasn't mired by crippling depression and anxiety, but it was hard to break old habits.

Shadows rolled over the car interior and the bright lights of London flew past her window, but Molly paid them little heed. Too many variations of the night's conclusion swirled around her brain and, the closer the driver got to her destination, the faster her thumbs ran circles around one another. It was very hard not to chew her bottom lip.

Finally, the taxi stopped outside 221 and she let the driver keep the change; it _was_ Christmas, after all. Thanking him, she climbed out of the vehicle and spent a long moment simply staring up at the window she knew looked into the living room. These were the moments Molly hated; perfectly simple and innocent occasions throwing her into emotional turmoil. What exactly did she have to be scared of? How many times had a visit to the flat resulted in anything other than a pleasant afternoon?

_Grow some bloody metaphorical balls, Molly!_

Inhaling a deep, bracing breath, the pathologist went to the front door and found it already open. That was a bit risky, wasn't it? Molly certainly would have never even contemplated leaving the entrance to her bedsit unlocked and open for any old passer-by to simply waltz in. Whilst ascending the stairs, she heard clapping and a few voices cheering and wondered what she might have missed. Unfortunately, she did not possess the skills to determine how many guests might be present.

Reaching the flat door and extending a hand to knock, she saw a note tacked up, just beneath the B. Following the black scribble's command, she turned the door handle and entered the flat, upon which five pairs of eyes swivelled in her direction.

"H-hello, everyone," she greeted, her cheeks flushing. "Sorry, hello."

"Oh, you made it, dear!" Cried an obviously squiffy Mrs Hudson. "I'm so glad."

Molly grinned back at her, finding the alcohol induced flush of the old lady's cheeks rather adorable. It seemed the landlady found John's idea favourable. The doctor strode towards the new arrival, a welcoming smile on his face. The dim lighting in the room made it hard to properly distinguish exactly what pattern was decorating his cheerful jumper.

"Er, it said on the door just to come in," she explained, unnecessarily.

A deep mutter filtered over to Molly's ears from across the room, but she was unable to discern the grumpy detective's exact words. She ignored him, already aware of his dislike for Christmas and started removing her coat and scarf. John stood close by, ready to take the items from her.

"Let me, er…" his sentence trailed off when he saw her chosen outfit for the evening and gave her a barely veiled assessment. "Wow," he finished, quietly.

Molly's face turned crimson and she immediately regretting her decision to wear the dress. Maybe her outfit was a little too much. She should have just stuck to her usual unflattering, but comfortable style. Tearing his eyes away from the young woman, John went to hang up her coat and scarf, leaving her momentarily alone with the other people in the room.

"Having a Christmas drinkies, then?" she said conversationally, placing her gift bag on the table in the centre of the room.

"No stopping them, apparently," Sherlock replied, placing the violin and bow clutched in his hands down on the table, before settling in a chair. Well, at least everyone knew exactly how _he_ felt about the proposed get-together.

Ignoring her humbug of a tenant, Mrs Hudson started speaking. "It's the one time of the year where the boys have to be nice to me, so it's almost worth it!"

Molly joined in with Martha's giggles and John returned, before sitting on the arm of the chair occupied by an attractive, copper skinned woman.

Over the course of their friendship, the pathologist had been vaguely aware of the doctor's sporadic love life and, from the looks of his body language, this woman was the latest prospective partner. She appeared to be rather reserved, having not yet spoken since Molly's arrival and she wondered if the poor girl's subdued demeanour was due to one of Sherlock's crippling assessments. The detective had a habit of driving away John's girlfriends. In all honesty, Molly was surprised John had actually invited her, as he tended to prefer keeping as much distance between his relationships and flatmate as possible, but, perhaps this woman was special. An unusual feeling simmered in Molly's stomach and, after briefly returning the smile John threw her way, she looked away.

John was called over to the laptop by Sherlock and something touched Molly's arm. Her head span sharply in surprise, to see Greg Lestrade had gently prodded her arm in order to get her attention. She tried to keep the emotion hidden from her expression. Physical interaction may have become far easier with Martha and John, but anyone else who tried to touch her still sent the alarm bells ringing in her head. Thankfully, Greg didn't appear to notice her discomfort.

"Want a drink?" the inspector asked, the age old gesture of necking a pint accompanying the offer.

"Oh, yes please," Molly said.

"You've got a photograph of me wearing _that_ hat!"

Sherlock's exclamation caught her attention and, hearing his indignant cry, she hid her amusement. The young woman knew exactly which picture he was on about. In it, the detective wore a surly expression, whilst a deer stalker rested atop his dark curls. She and John had shared a lot of laughter about that particular photo and she'd even dared him to include it on his blog.

"People like the hat," John insisted, slyly glancing over at his co-conspirator and giving her a wink.

"No they don't," Sherlock declared, before a hint of uncertainty filtered into his expression. " _What_ people?"

John walked away, smiling to himself and Greg handed Molly her drink.

"Thank you," she said, taking a small sip. "I didn't know you'd be here for this. Aren't you going away somewhere for Christmas?"

She vaguely remembered him mentioning something about a festive holiday away from London, but the details escaped her memory.

"Dorset," he informed her. "Me and the wife-we're back together."

Molly was genuinely pleased about his good news. She'd heard through the grapevine about his troubled marriage and was glad to know things were looking up for the couple.

"It's all sorted," Greg finished, but his positivity was soon brought to a crashing halt.

"No," Sherlock interjected, not looking away from the computer screen. "She's sleeping with a P.E teacher."

Molly couldn't bear to look at Greg's face, as he processed the information callously hurled at him by the detective. Sherlock was on top form this evening and she was feeling a note of ire creep into her demeanour. Christmas may not be his favourite time of year, but there was no needto be such an insufferable humbug. Surely, if he hated the get together so much, he could just leave them be for the evening.

Molly thought it best to draw as little attention to herself as possible; she had far better things to do than become his latest victim, although the pathologist couldn't help wondering why he was especially irritable. Was there more to it than a dislike for Christmas? She turned back to John, still perched on the chair's arm nearest her and hoped to engage him and, possibly, the rest of the room in conversation.

It worked for the most part, although it was clear Mrs Hudson would need a lie down soon. Molly wasn't sure when the tipsy woman had started drinking, but she was very close to her limit. John began talking about visiting his sister in a week or two, beaming with pride at the declaration that his sister had _finally_ kicked her drinking habit. When Sherlock attempted to contradict the claim, John replied with a hasty command for the detective to shut up and, for a short while, pleasant conversation flowed between the party guests. Even John's…well… _Jeanette_ joined in with a couple of comments. She didn't address Molly directly, for which the pathologist was glad, as she found it hard to make eye contact with the gorgeous young woman and preferred not to dwell on the reason why.

Through it all, Sherlock kept interjecting with remarks and everyone quickly started ignoring him. The detective, a self-professed show off, soon became irritated with the lack of attention and that was when Molly's evening took a turn for the worst. It was shame, as she had finally started enjoying herself and the company, but there was nobody like Sherlock Holmes to bring a social event crashing down.

Sherlock spoke in a voice that commanded attention from all in the room and precognition was not a requirement to see this wasn't going to end well.

"I see you've got a new boyfriend, Molly, and you're serious about him."

The sentence was uttered with an air of polite interest and everyone went silent, as the pathologist's eyes widened with bewilderment.

"S-sorry, w-what?" Surely she hadn't heard him right. She desperately _hoped_ she hadn't.

Sherlock stood and turned to fully face his audience. "In fact, you're seeing him this very night and giving him a gift."

What was he doing? Why was he doing it? She hadn't said a word to the detective all night, or forced festive cheer upon him, so why turn on her now and so suddenly?

"Take a day off," John said in quiet exasperation, anger simmering beneath the surface of his words.

"Oh, come on," Sherlock continued, a glint of enjoyment in his eyes. He was never happier than when making deductions. "Surely you've all seen the present at the top of the bag-perfectly wrapped with a bow. All the others are slapdash at best."

"Sherlock."

The tone of John's second warning was harsher, the displeasure more evident and Molly wanted nothing more than to curl up and hide. She felt her heartbeat quicken and cheeks flush with pre-emptive shame. Sherlock was going to humiliate her, whether he realised or not and she didn't understand the motive behind it. Was this his attempt at being funny? Had he finally decided to join in the party, at her expense? She certainly _wasn't_ seeing the funny side!

The detective had moved towards her, glancing at the bag of gifts she had brought with her. He was either oblivious to her squirming or simply didn't care. She was no stranger to his intrusive deductions and normally, they didn't bother her. This time, however, was different, as she'd already felt nervous about the party and self-conscious about her clothing, so his observations cut far deeper than usual.

"It's for someone special, then," he said, picking up the well-wrapped present.

Molly couldn't meet his-or anyone's-gaze, as the tall, pale, inhuman man continued his deductions and her knuckles turned white, as her grip on the wine glass tightened. She tried to think of something- _anything_ -to halt the unstoppable freight train that was Sherlock Holmes, but her mind was like a deer trapped in headlights. She didn't want him reading the gift tag, or declaring to the entire bloody world who it was for, especially after all the romantic connotations he'd added to it. The second her lipstick was mentioned, she wanted to snatch the tissues from her bag and wipe it off immediately!

"That would suggest long-term hopes, however forlorn…"

 _Forlorn?_ Molly's eyes swung unbidden to John and she could only bear his sympathetic gaze for a split second, before she started staring at the carpet again.

"…and that she's seeing him tonight is evident from her make-up and what she's wearing."

_Stop it, stop it, stop it!_

Sherlock turned over the gift tag, his eyes reading the note, as more words escaped his mouth. He was lost to the thrill of the deduction, the attention and proving just how bloody _observant_ he could be and the sentence left his lips, before his brain could even attempt to filter it.

"Obviously trying to compensate for the size of her mouth and breasts…"

Sherlock's tongue stuck on the last letter of the final word and horrible realisation fell upon his face, as he realised what he had just done. Reading the gift tag had also caught him short, as he hadn't expected to find the information he did.

Molly's eyes were still fixed to the floor and she tried to take solace in the sudden silence that enveloped the room. Silence had always been her friend, been her happy place, been the thing that meant everything was alright, because nothing happened during moments of silence. This time, however, the silence was foreboding. The room had suddenly become cold and she detested the pity radiating from everyone in the room. Forlorn, indeed.

It was the moment that Molly Hooper finally snapped.

The pathologist didn't snap the way most people did. There was no shouting or dramatic entrance, or bursting into fits of tears. She didn't even search for a witty comeback. She simply let out a quiet gasp of anguish, before speaking softly.

"You always say such horrible things," she remarked. "Every time. Always. _Always_."

The tears were ready to fall, but she used all her willpower to keep the emotion contained. Sherlock's torso turned, as if to walk away, before something truly extraordinary happened. He returned to his previous position, the gift still clutched in hands that were now held awkwardly in front of him. Molly dared to let her eyes move upwards and was shocked to see something akin to remorse plastered across his features. The detective definitely knew he'd done something wrong.

"I am sorry," Sherlock murmured, not actually looking her in the eye. "Forgive me."

For his part, John looked absolutely gobsmacked by the display of penitence from his usually apathetic friend.

Sherlock took a step closer and Molly's eyes widened, as her body stiffened. What was he going to do now?

"Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper." He handed her back the gift.

Silence returned once again, but it was very different this time around. An air of disbelief enveloped the room, as everyone-especially Molly-was in a state of shock from Sherlock's unexpected apology. Now, all the attention was on him again and Molly sincerely hoped she would be able to soon leave unnoticed. The party ambience had gone and she didn't want to be around people anymore.

" _Uhhhh!"_

A feminine sigh echoed loudly, breaking the spell of incredulity that everyone was under. There was only one reason a woman made that sort of sound and everyone was wondering where it had come from. Molly's face looked ready to combust.

"No!" she cried, in a panic. "That wasn't…I-I didn't…"

"No, it was me," Sherlock informed her calmly.

Molly and Greg both exclaimed in unison, with the latter almost spitting out his drink.

"My _phone_ ," the detective elaborated, looking at the pair as if they ridiculous.

Sherlock reached for his phone.

"Fifty seven?" John asked.

"Sorry, what?" Sherlock queried, distractedly.

"Fifty seven of those texts," the doctor clarified. "The ones I've heard."

"Thrilling that you've been counting," Sherlock murmured, walking over to the mantelpiece, having apparently forgotten the embarrassing scene of a moment ago. He picked up an item, a small red box, and his face turned thoughtful, before he excused himself and left the room.

John followed to find out if his friend was alright, but came back, having received no answers. The party definitely finished on a downer and Lestrade soon made his own excuses to leave. When Martha announced her departure, only Molly, John and Jeanette were left. In that moment, the pathologist definitely felt like a third wheel and a cloud of dejection hung over her head. It was time she left, too and she felt the regret of ever turning up swirl in her stomach. John would want to be alone with Jeanette and Molly simply wanted to be… _alone_.

Forlorn. God, she hated that word! She hated how aptly it fit her current situation and she hated Sherlock for being such an insensitive twat! Placing her glass down on the table, beside the bag of presents, she tried to put on her best smile.

"I'll…um…I'll get going," she said to John, before looking at the woman still sat in the armchair. "I-It was nice to meet you,"

"You too," Jeanette agreed, although it was hard to discern the truth in the words.

"I'll get your coat," John offered, knowing his friend too well to talk her into staying.

She nodded, before following him into the hallway. He held the coat up, allowing her to slide her arms into the sleeves with ease, before handing over the scarf. Uncomfortable silence fell between them and Molly wondered if her love of quiet had forever been ruined by this night. John rubbed a palm across his face, showing the exasperated exhaustion the party had caused.

"Molly-"

"Don't worry about it," she interrupted, wrapping the scarf around her neck. "It's Sherlock."

"No," John insisted, the anger at her humiliation surfacing once again. "That's no excuse! There is _no_ excuse for what he did and I don't know why he can't just _behave_ , just for one night. Is it really too much to ask for someone to act human for a couple of hours?"

"I think we've proven it is," Molly said, hoping to encourage a humorous spin on the evening's events. She could really do with a spark of her friend's humour right then. She needed John to be…well, John. It didn't seem as though he was going to take the bait, though, so she started checking her pockets, to ensure all her belongings were accounted for.

"How are you getting home?" he asked.

"I'll flag a taxi," she replied, getting her small purse out, ready.

John looked a little apprehensive about her plan.

"I'll be fine, honestly," she assured him. "Now, stop worrying about me. You've got a guest to entertain." She looked in the direction of the lounge, where Jeanette was waiting.

John's gaze followed hers and he looked as if he had momentarily forgotten anyone else was in the flat. His eyes returned to Molly. "Yeah. Look, I'll speak to you tomorrow, okay?"

"Alright."

"And, y'know, whatever he said tonight, ignore it. You really do look nice."

The blush returned with a vengeance on Molly's cheeks and she was at a loss as to how to respond. Compliments for Molly Hooper were not commonplace. With a mumbled goodbye, she finally left 221B and it had been quite a while since she longed to be back in her little bedsit. Taxis were a little thin on the ground, but, after almost a ten minute wait, she managed to catch one and, once sat inside, immediately grabbed a tissue to wipe off her lipstick. She vowed never to wear any form of makeup ever again.

_Merry fucking Christmas, Molly Hooper._

**0**

John trudged back up the steps and closed the flat door quietly behind him. Holding a party at 221B had always been a gamble when Sherlock Holmes was on the guest list, but the doctor had truly thought it would be okay. For a while, it had been. Everyone was getting along and Sherlock had even treated the room to a violin performance. John should have known the merriment couldn't last.

Jeanette was still sat in the armchair and smiled in his direction, as he approached. Passing the coffee table, the gift his flatmate had brought so much attention to caught his eye and he back peddled a couple of steps, before picking up the present. Molly had appeared mortified, as Sherlock made those connections that only he would notice and it fuelled John's curiosity. The gift tag had played a part in the detective's shock, so who was it for?

Holding the gift up, he turned the tag over to read the message and the words made his eyes widen in a surprise that matched his friend's. A mixture of emotions swamped his brain, which resulted in a soft bark of astonished laughter. The astonishment wasn't just from the revelation of the gift's intended recipient, but the fact that he found himself hoping some of Sherlock's deductions were correct. A smile broke through the bewilderment, as he read the tag a second time.

_To John,_

_Love Molly_

_XXX_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, there we are. I hope it flowed well for everyone. In the end, I kept the scene mostly as it was, because, this story may be AU, but it's also following much of what happens in the show. Not only is that scene an important character development for Molly, but it also shows a change in Sherlock, which leads him to grow further throughout the second and third series. Please let me know what you thought of it all; I'd be extremely grateful for any concrit received.
> 
> I'll see you all for the next update :)


	16. 16

** Chapter Sixteen **

What a difference two hours made.

Molly was once again stood before Sherlock Holmes, but, this time there was no party, no black dress and certainly no merriment. The tables had very much turned, as it was the pathologist's turn to send the detective into despair, although she took absolutely no pleasure from it.

She had received the call from the hospital roughly two hours ago, claiming it was an emergency and nobody else was available to do the autopsy. Molly agreed immediately, as she had nothing better to do and it would hopefully provide her mind with something other than the disastrous party to contemplate. She initially thought the body might be involved in the tattoo investigation, but it was soon proven otherwise.

Sherlock stood opposite her, his body language as rigid and aloof as she had ever seen it. Beside him stood a slightly taller man, with a bearing (if possible) even more supercilious than the detective and the lighting made his features appear far sharper than Molly suspected they were. She wondered who the stranger might be, but could tell by the expensive suit that he was important-or thought he was.

"You didn't need to come in, Molly," Sherlock's voice was deep and soft, echoing delicately in the morgue.

"It's okay," she assured him. "Everyone else was busy with….y'know…Christmas."

She knew how pathetic it made her sound, the lonely little mouse, with no friends or family to spend the most important time of year with. That was why she was so glad it was the machine present, rather than someone compassionate like John.

"The face is a bit sort of bashed up," she continued, focusing on the task at hand. "So identification might be a bit difficult."

Pulling back the white sheet, a face that might have vaguely resembled a woman once upon a time stared back up at the three crowded around it. Whatever might have been the cause of death, it certainly wasn't painless…or quick.

Sherlock's companion spoke. "That's her, isn't it?"

"Show me the rest of her," the detective commanded. The sheet was pulled away completely, revealing the woman's full naked body. Sherlock's eyes gazed upon the figure for a second, before his eyes left the body. "That's her," he said, without making eye contact with either of the two living.

His voice was very calm and steady, but, for a very brief moment, those icy blue eyes betrayed him. Molly caught the unintended display of emotion and sensed that, whoever the woman was, she certainly held some sort of significance to Sherlock. For the first time since meeting the detective, she felt a swell of pity for him and condolences were on the tip of her tongue, before she remembered who she'd been about to offer them to.

Without a word, Sherlock walked away and Molly watched his retreating figure. Yeah, he was _definitely_ upset. Only those subjected to the man on a regular basis would have noticed and, his companion must have known the detective rather well, because she saw a flicker of the pity she felt etched into his features, as well.

"Thank you, Miss Hooper," he said and looked ready to follow the detective.

"Who is she?" Molly asked, before the stranger could leave. Despite the tragedy, curiosity had got the better of her. "How did Sherlock recognise her from…not her face?"

Generally speaking, there was usually only one reason such identification could be made. Then again, this was Holmes the Detective she was talking about; it was usually wisest to avoid obvious assumptions when he was involved. The tall, owly man didn't reply with words, but gave her a polite smile, before also exiting the morgue and leaving the pathologist to ponder alone.

There were definitely more than a few secrets floating about, but she hadn't a hope of uncovering them. Sherlock's mood-or lack thereof-certainly worried her, though and, despite the trepidation she felt about contacting John at such an hour, especially when he was probably still busy with…

"Oh, sod it!" she murmured to herself, recovering the body, before pulling out her phone. He might be busy (which she really didn't want to think about), but, if his flatmate was in trouble, he'd want to know and help. She put the phone to her ear and listened to it ring, as the fingers of her free hand drummed against the opposing hip.

"Hello?"

"Hi, it's Molly. Um…is this a bad time to call?"

_Please say no…_

"Depends on your definition," he replied wryly. "Is something wrong?"

"Well, I don't know," she answered honestly. "It's Sherlock. He was just here identifying a body-a _woman's_ body."

A deep, troubling sigh filtered through the speaker. "Shit," he murmured.

Molly felt a sudden need to explain herself. "I-I wasn't sure whether to call or not. I mean, I know it's late and you're busy with… _whatever_ , but he looked kind of upset, or as upset as he _can_ look. I just thought you might be able to help…or need a warning."

"Either one of those could be true," he said and the weariness was plainly evident in his tone. "Did he say anything?"

"No. Just identified the body and left. Someone was with him, though. A tall man in a posh suit."

"Hmm." He obviously knew the man, then, judging by the dislike in the sound. "Oh, hang on," the doctor said suddenly. "I've just got a message. Let me see if it's Sherlock and I'll call you back."

She hung up and decided to pass the time by tidying up the morgue, ready for the autopsy that would be awaiting her in the morning. She had only just managed to store away the body, when her phone started ringing.

"Everything alright?" she asked.

"I hope so," John answered. "But, we'll see when Sherlock gets home. _If_ he gets home."

"John, who was she?" Perhaps, for once, the obvious assumption was the correct one. Perhaps Sherlock had finally found himself a…was girlfriend a term someone like him would use? If so, it just made the situation all the more tragic.

"I know _who_ she was, but I'm not entirely sure _what_ she was to _him_. It's turning out to be quite a long story. I'll explain what I can of it when I next see you. Right now, I've gotta baby-proof the flat. It's probably just as well Jeanette left."

"She did?" Surprise allowed the remark to exit her mouth, before she had time to properly filter it and he hand went up to her mouth, as though trying to snatch the words back. "S-sorry," she stammered. "I didn't mean…"

"No, it's alright," John reassured. "Don't think she was cut out for dating Sherlock Holmes' blogger, anyway."

Another one bites the dust. John didn't sound as upset as he could-or should- have been, so, either he was masking the pain, like his flatmate, or Jeanette _hadn't_ been as special as Molly thought. This was turning out to be a crappy Christmas for all, it seemed. The pause felt long and there was a lot hanging in that moment of silence. A seemingly innocent little get together between a handful of friends had a lot to answer for.

"Are…are you alright?" Molly asked, tentatively. She wasn't entirely sure of the reason behind the query, but she was feeling horrible for everyone involved with whatever this mess involving the dead woman was. And John sounded so _tired_. Whatever the pathologist's feelings towards Jeanette, he didn't deserve even half the grief he endured living with Sherlock.

"I'm fine," he said.

"Really?" she didn't bother hiding the scepticism in her voice.

"If I'm not allowed to worry about you, you're not allowed to do the same about me."

"That wasn't a yes," she argued.

"Wasn't a no, either," he countered.

"Stubborn git," she retorted. "It's time to find you a new flatmate; he's a bad influence on you."

"Preferably one that's a sociopath, eh?"

"Erm…I can't make any promises. Sane isn't really my area."

"Mine neither."

"Well, as the great John Watson once said: "We're a right pair of old fuck ups!"

Soft laughter filtered down the line and the sound brought a small, hopeful smile to her face. "Do you need anything?"

"Alcohol, sleep…you, for some _normal_ conversation."

Molly switched the phone to her other hand, before checking the time on her watch. "Do you want me to come over?"

"No, no, no," he said quickly. "I'm not willingly subjecting _anyone_ to Sherlock when he's in one of these moods."

"Okay."

"Thanks, though…not many who know his Highness would offer."

"It's my pleasure," she said, before trying to correct her wording. "I mean, not…y'know…I'm just happy to help."

"I know and you already have helped." The line went quiet for a moment, before John spoke again, his tone more hushed and hurried than before. "I think I heard the door. Talk later, yeah?"

"Okay, but my offer still stands if you're desperate."

"Alright."

Their goodbyes were quick and Molly was glad not to find herself in the doctor's shoes. His visit to see family in a couple of weeks was going to be a welcome holiday, she reckoned.

**0**

A couple of days passed and, for the most part, they were uneventful. Work was busy, one of the more tragic consequences for festive excess and John was keeping a close eye on Sherlock. She tried her best not to be affected by the autopsy of the woman the detective had identified, but all she could remember was that brief look in his eyes and John's reaction when she told him the news. She sincerely hoped they were alright.

"Molly!"

The young woman's eyes jerked upwards, the sudden exclamation catching her by surprise. Joseph came jogging towards her, as she headed for the morgue, with several large ring binders clutched in her arms. Christ, he was after something and she tried to keep her internal moan from escaping her lips.

"Yeah?" she replied, hoping he would be quick.

"I need a massive favour," Joseph began, as though she hadn't already guessed his motive. "I need you to cover my night shift tomorrow. _Please_ say you'll do it!"

Whatever her colleague needed the night off for, it had to important for him to start begging. In truth, Molly had no issue with night shifts, but she was also wary of getting into the habit of having everyone dump their unwanted shifts onto her. Once upon a time, she would have just agreed without question, but she had recently decided to start improving her skills of negotiation.

"If you'll cover my Friday night," she said, after a pause. It wasn't a particularly important night for her, but she knew those with busy social lives planned things then and his agreement would prove how eager he was for her help.

"That's fine," he agreed, without hesitation. ""Thanks, Molly, I owe you!"

"You're welcome." Her reply ended up as a murmur unheard by the intended audience, as Joseph had disappeared as quickly as he'd just arrived. Molly simply shrugged and carried on with what she'd been doing.

Friday nights at St Bart's were always a little eerie. It was when the fewest amount of staff were present and the atmosphere always seemed to alter after six pm. Molly hadn't been in the building more than five minutes, when her phone started ringing and vibrating in her coat pocket. After a battle with one end of her long scarf, she managed to retrieve the device, before answering.

Her presence was required in the morgue immediately.

Molly's pace drastically increased, as did her heartbeat. She knew there was only one reason for the speaker's earnest tone and the suspicion was confirmed when she saw Detective Dimmock waiting, as the double doors swung open, granting access to the morbid room.

"Evening," he said, greeting her with a nod.

Beside him stood another colleague of hers, Jenny, who awaiting Molly's arrival, in order to finally end her shift. Pulling the bag strap over her head and placing it at the foot of the coat stand, Molly removed her coat, before replacing it with her trusted white one.

"It's been a while," Dimmock observed, as she came to stand the other side of the body already laid out for her inspection.

Jenny quickly checked if anything more was required of her, before hurrying out of the morgue. Another with plans for the evening.

"If I'm honest," the detective continued. "I had hoped that the extended quiet spell was a permanent arrangement." His eyes fell to the corpse. "Guess not."

Molly tried to quickly calculate how much time had passed since the last victim of the posthumous tattooing arrived in the hospital. If she was right, it was at least six or seven months ago. It surprised the pathologist to realise how quickly the time had passed.

"Where's the mark?" she asked, knowing there would be one, otherwise Dimmock wouldn't have been there.

"It's carved into the left bicep," he explained, pointing the limb nearest him.

Molly retrieved a couple of gloves and hastily slipped them on, before rounding the table, to inspect the mark. Dimmock stepped aside to give her access, but still leaned over to observe her work. She lifted the arm by the wrist and elbow, to find the carving. Immediately, she saw that it was done whilst the victim was alive and she dreaded to think what suffering the middle aged woman had suffered before her death.

On the inside of the arm, a few inches below the armpit, was a short message. It was every bit as elusive and frustrating as its predecessors.

"Have you read this already?" she asked her companion.

"Yeah, but, once again, haven't a clue what it means." The frustration was _very_ evident in his tone.

Her eyes hadn't left the scored lettering and she didn't even bother trying to make sense of the message. It was time to inform Sherlock, though. Perhaps this would be a gift to cheer up his awful Christmas, as appalling as that sounded.

Apparently, Dimmock was thinking the very same, because she heard him behind her, speaking into his phone.

"Yeah, another one. Same MO and everything. You will? Alright. The pathologist is already doing an autopsy, so we'll be here waiting."

As he carried on talking, the words on the arm started spinning around her head. Another message, another clue, another piece of a puzzle that nobody could put together. It was terrible that so many lives were being lost in such a futile way, especially because there was nothing anyone was able to do to stop it yet. She was ready to beg, steal and borrow for a miracle that let Sherlock decipher the latest piece of evidence.

_**MM-MISS ME?** _


	17. 17

** Chapter Seventeen **

The investigation was back in full swing. Detective Dimmock had left the hospital and was on his way to the crime scene, where the latest body was found. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were meeting him there, to search for any clues that might help locate the killer, whilst Molly Hooper remained in the morgue, to conduct her autopsy on the poor woman.

It appeared that poisoning of a different kind was the cause of death this time and, if possible, the death sounded even more horrendous than its predecessor. She tried not to think about the sort of person who might ever have considered mixing household bleach and vinegar. It was common knowledge that, when mixed, they produced a toxic chlorine gas and she'd even known people who used it as a means to get high. Murder was a much less common use for the concoction, although, sadly, not unheard of. Molly's stomach took a turn when she realised the victim had been forced to actually _drink_ the mixture, too. Apparently, gassing the woman to death wasn't enough for the killer.

As she performed the post mortem, Molly tried to keep her mind from dwelling on the unfathomable message inscribed on the woman's arm. What on Earth was anyone supposed to make of it?

_MM-MISS ME?_

Of course, the meaning behind the two words was easy enough to grasp, although the answer was a resounding NO. However, it was hard to know if the two initials preceding the words were simply to emphasise the point, or alluded to something else altogether. Well, Sherlock was back on the case, so, if anyone could figure it out, it'd be him.

If his mind was in a fit state to work, that was.

Little had been said about the dead woman he identified, but she knew John was still worried about his friend and even considering cancelling the trip to see his family. Did the detective realise just how amazing a flatmate he had acquired? In all her thirty three years, Molly had never been fortunate enough to have such a loyal and wonderful companion and, given her past and mental instability, the young woman doubted she would ever be graced with such luck.

The post mortem took the entire night to complete, as she had to detail every single bit of damage done to the internal organs, as well as take photographic evidence. Her next shift would be consumed by reports and analysis. It was all very painstaking and gruesome and required a particular type of person to do the job. Those who asked Molly what she did for a living were often surprised by her profession, as she, in their words, didn't seem the type for such a career. They would probably have preferred a balding man, hunched over, limping around, as he said "yes master!" to his superiors. In that regard, Molly _wasn't_ sorry to disappoint.

The sky was still dark by the time she finished examining the corpse and she wondered how the others were getting along. There had been no calls or texts all night, meaning they were either still busy investigating the crime scene, or had turned up nothing worthy of note. For the sake of London's residents, she sincerely hoped it was the former.

By the time the morgue had been tidied and she was tucked up comfortably in her coat, the first hints of pale blue shimmered on the horizon. It promised to be a dry, if very cold day, but she eagerly anticipated the cool morning air, hoping it would provide refreshment after a long night in an air conditioned building.

By the time she got home, it was full daylight and Molly felt fully awake. However, settling down with a nice hot cuppa, the drowsiness quickly set in and the mug was still half full when she finally crawled into bed.

**0**

_Bang! Bang! Knock, knock, bang!_

Molly was startled into wakefulness and almost leapt upright. Her heart was going ten to the dozen and her eyes flew wildly about the room, searching for the threat. Her head pounded and it sounded as though a drum was beating loudly in her brain. It took an unreasonable amount of time for her to realise the drum beat was actually someone knocking on her bedsit door.

She had no idea what the time was, but her body was informing her that it certainly hadn't had enough rest. The knocking continued and she was tempted to simply lie back down and wait for the person to go away, but it didn't seem as though the visitor was going to relent any time soon. A muffled shout filtered through the keyhole, confirming that Molly's sleep was finished for the day.

"Molly!" Sherlock said between knocks.

"Han-" Her voice sounded like Kermit the Frog, as it left her mouth, so she cleared her throat, before trying again. "Hang on!"

The banging stopped, much to the pathologist's relief. Kicking off the quilt, she grabbed her cotton dressing gown and wrapped it tightly around herself, before attempting to smooth her hair into some semblance of neatness.

Upon opening the door, her eyes confirmed that it was, in fact, Sherlock Holmes calling at her door.

"Why aren't you at work?" he demanded.

"W-what?" Molly could barely comprehend the question, along with the scowl arranging his striking features, which appeared to be directed towards her. Where was John?

"There is work to be done at the morgue," Sherlock said, apparently utterly baffled by her lack of presence at the hospital. "Why aren't you there doing it?"

"I was sleeping…"

"For which the serial killer currently carving the alphabet into his victims is immensely grateful, I'm sure."

Molly didn't appreciate such disdain when she was only half awake and her eyes narrowed in irritation. "I spent all _night_ doing the autop-"

"But, you've provided no notes," Sherlock interrupted, his earnest face resembling a child desperate to carry out a task, but unable to until their parents assist them. "You've filed no reports, nor have you even begun any analysis!"

"I'm going to do them when I get to work later," she insisted, trying to rub the sleep from her eyes. She was too tired for this!

"There isn't time," Sherlock stated. "I've already had to wait several hours and every minute that passes is another minute that _he_ is out there. Get dressed. I'll wait here."

For several moments, Molly did little more than stare at the bizarre man stood before her, amazed at just how _weird_ he could be at times. Did he really expect her to simply obey his orders and follow him back to the building she had only left a few hours ago? The look she received in return told her he very much did and she was far too lacking in energy to argue.

"Urgh, alright!" Molly relented, her shoulders slumping in defeat. "Give me a few minutes."

The pathologist turned and walked towards the wardrobe that stood near the foot of her bed, before looking back over her shoulder at Sherlock, who remained in the doorway.

"You don't have to wait outside," she said. "Come in."

He considered the offer for a moment, before stepping into the small abode. She dreaded to think of the deductions he'd inevitably make and the things it would tell him about her as a person. No comment was made, though, as she grabbed several items of clothing and shut herself in the bathroom to change.

The mirror told Molly everything she needed to know about the extent of her sleep deprivation. She'd been getting better recently and generally experienced at least one full night of sleep a week, which was definitely having a positive effect on her both physically and mentally. Unfortunately, all it took was one bad night for her to look like a reanimated corpse. Blending in with her surroundings, perhaps?

That little joke might have been funny, were it not quite so tragic.

Sherlock was gazing out the window, when Molly emerged from the bathroom, now fully dressed and (vaguely) presentable. It made her think back to the times when she'd always spot him passing along the street below and her head would be filled with ideas of who he was and what he did. None of them had ever quite lived up to the reality.

"Ready?" he asked, his body poised like a well trained Jack Russell, desperate to fetch a stick that had just been thrown.

Nodding, she quickly peeked into her bag to check everything was there, before shrugging on a coat and trailing after the detective, as they exited the bedsit. He didn't wait, as she checked the lock and the petite woman had to jog to catch up with his long, determined strides. She doubted he would allow time to grab a coffee on the way.

**0**

Entering the laboratory, Molly Hooper was halfway through explaining her findings from the previous night's post mortem, when her eyes bore witness to a sight never before seen. Her voice faltered a little, before continuing in a hushed tone, not wishing to wake the sleeping doctor. John was sat in one of the chairs, arms crossed and legs stretched out to rest his feet upon the seat opposite. His head lolled forwards and slightly to one side, so that part of his chin rested against his chest, as it moved up and down in rhythm with his breathing. Being able to fall asleep in one of the uncomfortable seats made Molly wonder if the detective and his blogger had pulled an all-nighter, like herself. Knowing Sherlock, though, he and John probably _hadn't_ gone to bed when dawn arrived.

She hung up her things and gave herself a moment to compile a mental list of what needed to be done. Much of her time was going to be spent in the morgue once again, as she'd need to ensure her report was as accurate as possible and it was highly likely that Sherlock would be in there with her, giving the body an autopsy of his own. Before any of that, though, Molly needed coffee-a _lot_ of coffee. She was certain the other two could use some caffeine as well, so grabbed some change from her purse and told the detective where she was going. He protested, until she handed him the photos taken of the body last night. It didn't entirely appease, but bought enough time for a trip to the canteen.

Upon her return, she carefully manoeuvred her way over to where the detective sat, hoping the cup cradled in the nook of her arm wouldn't spill scalding liquid over her. When her eyes fell on Sherlock, she saw that he was staring into the distance, with his hands pressed together beneath his chin. Molly recognised the "mind palace" pose and didn't dare interrupt.

John was still asleep and she cringed a little at the thought of how sore his neck was going to be when he woke. Placing both his and her drinks on the table, she allowed herself a moment of study. He looked so peaceful reclining before her, all the lines of worry or frustration usually present on his face having been smoothed out by slumber. He must have run a hand through his hair, as several tufts stuck out at odd angles and she bit back a smile. It was tempting to take a photo and she wondered if guests could post pictures on his blog.

Her hand fidgeted at her side for a moment, before moving of its own accord to rearrange the messy mop on the doctor's head. He fingers were mere inches away from his hair, when a voice broke the silence.

"Did you find your things?" Sherlock queried.

Molly, startled by the noise, immediately straightened. "U-umm…things?"

"The items that went missing from your home," the detective clarified. "Did you ever find them?"

"Er…some of them," she answered, wondering at the question. She didn't remember having ever mentioned it to him. "Well, the hair bands anyway."

A long pause.

"Where were they?"

"In my coat pocket," she replied, intrigued to know where Sherlock might be going with his line of questioning. He certainly held no interest in small talk, so there had to be a good reason for his curiosity.

"Is that where you remember leaving them?"

Molly thought for a moment, trying to recollect. "I…I don't… _think_ so. I can't really remember for sure, though."

"Hmm," was all Sherlock said, before he fell back into silence.

"Why?" Molly wondered, unsure if he would explain.

There was no reply and, for a minute or two, Sherlock just remained sat where he was, the tips of his steepled fingers tapping together lightly. Something was on his mind and she would have loved to know what connection her missing things had to his thoughts, but it seemed he wasn't going to answer her question.

"I've had a thorough look at the photographs," he said, abruptly changing subject. "But I need to see the body."

"Alright," she agreed, before her eyes fell to John again. He really was quite adorable to watch sleeping and those tufts were still there. The urge to smooth them down was growing, but she felt far too self conscious to do it with an audience.

"Should we wake him?" she checked. "He doesn't look comfortable."

"He's used to it," the detective said absently, standing up from his seat.

She could imagine he was, forced to catch naps whenever and wherever possible. Poor bloke.

"Still," she pushed, mentally running through all the staff quarters in the hospital. "There are more comfortable places to sleep around here…"

"Yes," Sherlock concurred. "There is room full of beds downstairs."

A quiet chuckle escaped Molly's lips. "I don't think he'd appreciate waking up in one of the morgue drawers."

Sherlock was quiet for a moment, but there was a mischievous glint in his eye. "It'd be funny, though."

Over the time she had got to know Sherlock Holmes, Molly had been surprised by the dry humour lying beneath the detective's cold surface. It came out every so often and she loved those moments, as it added a level of humanity to the aloof man. The best times of all were when he and John found something mutually amusing; they often turned into giggling schoolboys and she'd sit out of eyeshot just to watch their interaction.

"Perhaps we should wait until John's less grumpy from lack of sleep," she suggested.

"Boring," Sherlock muttered. "Just be quick. I'll be downstairs."

With that, he walked out of the lab, leaving Molly alone with her sleeping friend. Uncertainty hit her, as she wondered how best to actually wake him, because there was a likelihood of him insisting on joining the pair in the morgue, despite the obvious exhaustion. She'd try her best to convince him otherwise, though.

Before that, however, was the matter of his unruly hair. Carefully, she stretched out her arm and strands of fine hair brushed her fingertips. She was probably being far gentler than necessary, due to a fear of John waking whilst her hands were in his hair. When the mane was finally tamed, she lowered her hand and rested it on his shoulder, before rocking gently. The response was slow, with nothing more than his breathing changing, forcing Molly to shake harder. Eventually, his green eyes blinked open, but he had no idea where he was, given the bemused arrangement of his features.

She took a step back, allowing him space to properly gain wakefulness and he rubbed his eyes several times, before letting out a long yawn. It took some time, but, eventually, John was finally awake and let out a sleepy sigh.

"What time is it?" he asked.

"About twenty to two," she answered.

He absorbed the reply, before his brows came together in a frown. "Didn't you do night shift yesterday?" Before Molly could answer, realisation dawned and his head drooped, before he pinched the bridge of his nose. "Crying out loud," he muttered, exasperatedly.

"It's fine, honestly," Molly insisted. "I had loads to do anyway and, with Sherlock here, it might even get done quicker."

John held his hands up in the air, before letting them fall into his lap with a loud slap and breathing out a chuckle. "Welcome to my world!"

She giggled, before pushing the coffee cup closer to him. "Thought you might need it."

Removing his legs from the second chair, he leant forward and grasped the drink eagerly. "Marry me, Molly."

Although it was clearly a joke, Molly felt the colour flush her cheeks and let out a nervous chuckle, but, luckily, her companion was too busy sipping the caffeinated drink to witness her reaction. The pathologist sought to alleviate her embarrassment with an attempt at humour.

"Maybe after the post mortem?"

"Turned down for a corpse; that's a new low."

Relieved by the success of her joke, she laughed more freely, accompanied by his chuckles and any threat of awkwardness was eliminated. Molly knew there shouldn't have been any, what with it being a harmless joke and all, but there was something bubbling beneath the surface, that had been developing ever since that time he first touched her arm months and months ago. For the first time, the pathologist was tempted to actually explore the subtle changes happening, but the usual fears held her back and, before she could consider fighting them, her phone beeped.

**Hurry up. SH**

"I have to go," she said, apologetically, placing the phone back in her lab coat pocket, without replying. "His Royal Impatience awaits."

"Can't keep her waiting, can we?" John remarked, getting to his feet.

"I'd tell you to sleep, but already know you won't."

"Correct," John declared. "We've got a killer to catch. Come on."

He finished off his drink and Molly didn't even bother trying to argue, as the pair walked out of the lab, to heed the call of the consultant detective.

**0**

Eight hours later, Molly was ready to collapse. She'd done well, reaching the seven o' clock mark, as it was far later than she'd initially planned to stay at St. Bart's. There was no protest from Sherlock, as he'd spent the past couple of hours silently pouring over records, reports and analysis notes and was more than content to carry on.

Molly absently wandered about the lab, gathering her things ready to leave and took the twenty pound note out of her purse, in order to save rooting through her bag for it at the end of the cab journey.

"Get some sleep," john ordered, as she said her goodbyes.

"When you do," she replied.

"Touché."

She left with a tired smile on her face and very much looked forward to a quiet evening at home. Given the time of evening, the wait for an unoccupied taxi was thankfully short and she reached the entrance to her block of flats before quarter to eight. She had the entire remainder of her evening planned, which consisted of food, drink (non-alcoholic) and crap telly. What could be better?

Molly only lived on the second floor, but the stairs that usually posed no problem for her appeared to have grown to the size of Everest. She trudged up them, as the lift in the building hadn't worked since she moved in and reaching that last step had never seemed so glorious.

Her hand rummaged through her bag for the keys and, as always happened when she was either in a rush or just couldn't be arsed, they were hidden at the very bottom. When the item was finally retrieved, she tried to push the key into the lock, but failed, because the door swung ajar, allowing a couple of inches of light to spill into the dark bedsit.

She froze, as several different scenarios came to mind. She was sure she'd locked it, but, with her tiredness that morning, the shock of Sherlock summoning her to work and all the information she'd had to absorb during her shift, it was hard to actually piece together all her memories of the day. Could she have forgotten?

The more terrifying explanation was that someone had burgled her. Her heart immediately raced at the thought, but not because of the loss of possessions, as, bar the laptop, she didn't own anything of value. It was the idea of a stranger entering her home, violating her privacy and life. The last time something like that happened, it wasn't just her privacy that was violated.

Molly was ready to run back the way she had come, when something caught her eye. The hallway light had reached the opposite wall, revealing the corner of what appeared to be a sheet of paper. Taking a moment to listen, she heard absolutely no sounds coming from the bedsit, so pushed the door open a little wider, as her other hand grabbed her phone and searched through the list of contacts.

When the wall was fully illuminated, she gasped, before clamping a hand over her mouth. It took a moment for the sight to fully sink in and, when it did, her eyes grew wide, palms turned clammy and lips fell open in disbelief. Five sheets of paper, roughly A3 in size, hung on the wall, four of which formed a square, with the fifth residing in the centre. Each was a photograph that Molly recognised immediately. They were black and white, with one word, coloured in lurid red, residing in the centre of every picture. On their own, each word was as innocent as a newborn child, but, together, they formed a sentence that had plagued her, Scotland Yard and the great Sherlock Holmes for months.

**I'M**

**GOING**

**TO**

**GET**

**YOU**

Shocked curiosity had propelled her forwards into the middle of the bedsit and Molly almost jumped in surprise when bright light filled the room, followed by the slam of the door. She span to see a man stood beside the doorway, his hand resting on the light switch and, the second she saw his face, everything stopped. Time stood still, her breathing hitched and reality came crashing down, as every single nightmare that had ever plagued her returned at full force, overwhelming her brain.

It was _him_.

He was here, he'd found her and he'd broken his promise.

"Molly?"

John's voice emerged from the speaker of the phone pressed against her ear, offering her brain something to latch on to and she woke from her terrified stupor. The only response she could manage came in the form of a trembling whisper.

"John…"


	18. 18

** Chapter Eighteen **

" _John…"_

John Watson moved like a man possessed. In a split second, years of army training kicked back in and he found himself racing across London, closely trailing Sherlock, in order to save his friend from whatever peril she was in. Never had the doctor expected to be grateful for the countless chases he and the detective had participated in, but he certainly was now! John no longer got caught out by unexpected jumps from one roof to another and the pair manoeuvred themselves easily across the sprawling city.

Molly hadn't needed to say anything more than his name; the terror in her whisper was enough. She was in trouble and it was up to him to get to her as quickly as possible. Again, living with Sherlock had been more of a blessing than John realised, because it'd kept him in pretty good shape after leaving the army and he was able to keep a steady pace. He also had no trouble remembering the combat training he'd received, more than ready and _very_ willing to use it if need be.

He hadn't expected Sherlock to be so eager and ready to leave St. Bart's after Molly's call, but didn't complain. The man had an eidetic memory of the city's entire landscape and John knew he'd provide the quickest route there. The doctor only hoped they reached her in time.

**0**

Just as before, _He_ didn't speak. There was never any talking until the very end, when fully loaded threats and empty promises were hurled into the air with careless abandon. He simply _moved_ , hurtling forward with a lunge Molly tried to avoid. So many things were against her, though: the size of the room, the heavy bag and coat wrapped around her body, and the paralyzing fear of reliving the most horrifying moment of her entire life for a second time.

She jumped back, but his reach was still long enough to clasp the hem of her coat and yank her towards him. She tried to free her arms from the garment, but everything got tangled in the strap of her bag, which was also used as a means of restraint. Within seconds, she was enclosed in strong arms and pressed tightly against her attacker. A large palm gripped her chin, as fingers dug into each cheek and she squeezed her eyes shut, trying to wriggle free, but he was simply too strong.

He wanted her to open her eyes, she knew. It was a predilection of his, but she couldn't acquiesce. She didn't want to see, to have her memory of the vile creature refreshed. Pain sparked along Molly's jaw, as the grip got even tighter and her mouth let out an agonised whimper. Moisture gathered in her lashes, and she soon had no choice but to obey. She still didn't look in his direction, though and refused to ever do so, even though it would only infuriate him further. Her eyes darted everywhere, skirting the top of his head or edges of his ears and he started changing the angle of her head, to force her eyes upon him. It didn't work and he let out a snarl of rage, before both hands came up to grip her temples.

It was the opportunity Molly needed and she seized it with everything she had. Her knee jerked upwards, hitting its target with all the energy she could muster. Her reward was a hiss of pain from the animal, before a backhanded slap sent her spinning to the floor. The coppery taste of blood met her tongue, but Molly barely registered it. Despite her failure, the pathologist had fought to the bitter end both times before and the third would be no different.

She attempted to scramble to her feet, but fingers encircled her ankle. Her free leg kicked at the restraining hand and another furious growl came from her attacker, before she was free once more. The pathologist wasted no time in moving again and raced for the bathroom, hoping to use the door as a barrier between them. She managed to enter the room, but, as she pushed the door shut, his left arm and shoulder blocked the way. Molly threw all her weight at the door, whilst also smacking his bicep, trying desperately to somehow maim the monster coming at her, but it wasn't working.

There had to be something close by that she could use in self defence, but it was hard to conduct a search, when an almost six foot man was trying to break the door down. Molly allowed herself a quick glance at the sink beside her and could have cried for joy when she remembered the scissors that resided in the cabinet above it. It was then that Molly was truly grateful for living in a small bedsit, because she was able to reach out and open the small door, without losing her grasp on the only barricade she had against _him_.

Her action wasn't without cost, however, as a foot joined the arm to block the door, but Molly didn't dwell. Instead, she separated the scissor blades, before gripping one and plunging it into her assailant's arm. He howled and insults of all kinds were hurled at her, but she didn't stop at the one blow. Over and over, she let the scissors connect with his flesh, as his hand tried to snatch them away, until trickles of blood ran out of his jacket sleeve, to fall to the floor.

His arm finally gave up the fight and retreated, but his foot remained, so she started stamping on it, knowing that crouching down in order to stab it would make her lose grip. All the while, she was still trying to fight against the weight he threw at the door and Molly wondered how much more energy she had to use. She didn't want any of this to happen again. She'd come so far! So much was going _well_ , returning to normal and she had finally reached the start of the long road, that would eventually lead to becoming the person she used to be all those years ago. If this… _thing_ was successful a third time, Molly knew there would be no going back.

But John was coming. He wouldn't let her down. This was what he and Sherlock did; they stopped criminals and if ever there was a criminal that needed stopping, it was the fucking lunatic that had broken into her home! How long would it take them to arrive? Would they be able to even enter the building?

Molly didn't have time to think negatively. Her strength was failing and she could feel the gap in the bathroom door growing little by little with each shunt of her attacker. _No, no, no, no, NO_! Her mind screamed at her to keep going, keep holding the door and keep him away, but it was getting harder and harder to do so. He was going to win, she knew it and her despair doubled.

_Please, John…Sherlock…anyone! Get here and stop him!_

One last blow collided with the door and it sent Molly sprawling to the linoleum floor. With a crash, the handle smashed against the wall and heavy footsteps pounded towards her, before her ponytail was once again used as a means of leverage. Blazing fury was fuelling her assailant, now, lending him extra strength, if that was even possible. This time, when the coat and bag were yanked off her body, there was no chance for her to resist and she was pressed against a wall once more.

This was the moment Molly Hooper truly dreaded. It was when the real torture began and the thought that help might arrive too late added the last bit of fuel to her fight. She clawed, scratched, hit and kicked with all her might, trying to delay the Hell her assailant intended to force upon her. There was no method to her struggle and she was soon out manoeuvred by the man, with her arms pinned down at her side. She still had the scissors and could feel the blade cutting into her skin, but she was unable to wield it. His lips went to her throat and she bucked, not intending to make any of it easy for him. The payment for her non-compliance was a bite of her neck and she cried out in revulsion.

"Molly!"

For a moment, the pathologist thought she had imagined the voice of her saviour, a product of desperately wishful thinking. When her name was called a second time, however, the volume had increased and she knew she wasn't imagining things. Her assailant must have predicted her response to the call, because he clamped a hand over her mouth, but she managed to wriggle enough of her face free to reply.

"JOHN!"

She screamed as loudly as she could and a curse reverberated loudly in her ear, before a second slap landed against her cheek. Her hand went up to press against the stinging handprint and it was then that she realised she was suddenly alone. She hadn't even noticed his exit! Raised voices were heard outside the bathroom and she had no idea what was happening, but couldn't bring herself to move from the spot she was left in. Even if she had been able to, the pathologist was too terrified to find out what was happening, in case it wasn't in her favour.

The sound of a quick struggle was followed by silence and Molly strained her ears for any clue of the outcome. What had happened? Where had everybody gone? It didn't help that the door had swung almost shut, but her breath caught in her throat when she heard footsteps approaching. Sweat broke out across her brow and her heart felt as though it was going to burst out her chest. The squeal of the door hinges announced the incomer's arrival and she couldn't take the tension any more. The scissors were raised; a pathetic last attempt to defend herself.

When the identity of the person entering the bathroom was revealed, Molly felt every last ounce of strength expel from her exhausted body. Distraught gasps of breath exited her lips and, with her back still pressed up against the wall, she slid to the floor. Utterly desperate relief covered John Watson's expression, as he stood in the doorway for a moment, assessing the scene before him. His features then shifted, as doctor mode kicked in and, rather than rush forward, he remained where he was, crouching down to her level. His arms extended, before palms opened in a pose designed to reassure that he wasn't a threat and his experience with victims of shock was displayed. He knew not to rush to her aid or overwhelm her with a barrage of questions and his decision to keep a large amount of space between them meant he was thinking of her aversion to physical contact. It was a simple thing, but his remembrance reminded her of the fact that John Watson never demanded anything of Molly that she wasn't willing to give; that, even though she had become comfortable enough to embrace him occasionally, he still offered her the respect of letting it be _her_ choice.

John started carefully moving forward, until he was close enough for their knees to almost touch.

"Molly," he said softly, his eyes connecting and locking with hers. "Will you hand me the scissors?"

It took a while for his request to register and when it did, bemusement clouded her brain, before her eyes shifted to the left and saw the item mentioned still clutched tightly in her fist. The blades and her fingers were covered in blood, but the shock was still too great for her to acknowledge it properly. She simply complied, slowly moving her arm to let the scissors fall into his open hand. He placed them onto the floor beside him, but his eyes still hadn't left her as he did so.

"Now," he continued, his voice still rolling off the tongue in the soft, soothing tone that managed to break through the shock. "Are you hurt anywhere else besides your hand and lip?"

Her hand? Molly looked at it again and was surprised by the gash she saw lining the centre of her palm. She wasn't capable of even wondering how _that_ wound had happened, let alone alert the doctor to any others.

"It's alright," he soothed, sensing her growing panic. "It's alright."

Alright. All right. That one word was enough to turn her gasps into pitiful sobs, as the weight of everything that had just happened finally came crashing down on her. He'd come back! After promising to stay away, the bastard had returned and tried to take away everything she had worked so hard to rebuild for the second time. He had attempted to turn her back into the pathetic hollow of a human being she was trying so hard to grow out of…

But he _failed_.

She had fought against him and managed to stall his advances long enough for help to arrive, help that was now kneeling before her, compassion radiating from every pore.

"J-John-" The words faltered, as the weeping began and she wanted to wipe the tears away, but her hands trembled too much to function.

"Molly," John said, his voice a little louder. His hands were held up again, but he still restrained from touching her. When clarity returned to the distraught young woman, she'd be able to thank him. "Molly, it's okay. It's over. He's gone and you're safe."

 _Safe_. What a concept. How she would love to truly believe that, to believe she would never endure the pervert's touches ever again. God, she _hated_ him, she well and truly fucking _loathed_ the person who was preventing her closest friend from offering her the physical comfort she needed. She hated that, instead of seeing the face of John Watson, all her eyes could picture were the images of her attacker's face. And, most of all, she hated herself.

"Molly, I'd like to check your wounds. Is that alright?"

As before, his question took a while to register, but, when it did, Molly nodded.

"Can you stand?"

She wasn't entirely sure she could, but tried anyway. Placing both palms on the ground, the pathologist attempted to lever herself upwards, but the jolt of pain in her left hand made her wince and she stumbled. John was right there, at her side, ready to offer the assistance he clearly so desperately wanted to give. He was patient, though, watching whilst she struggled unaided to her feet a second time.

When they were both standing, he took a moment to check her over. The process was quick, as there were only two wounds visible, but, throughout it all, no contact was initiated. He simply instructed her on how to hold out her left palm for his inspection. Upon the discovery that Molly didn't own a first aid kit, the doctor started chewing the inside of his cheek and she presumed he was thinking of how to proceed.

"The cuts on your hand and lip aren't serious," he told her. "But they need cleaning and your hand needs bandaging. Now, this is entirely _your_ choice, but I have everything to do it at Baker Street, however, if you'd prefer to go to a hospital, I can take-"

"No!" she replied, her tone too sharp and voice too high-pitched. She didn't want to go anywhere _near_ a hospital of any shape or form. They'd ask questions, begin assessments and it would only lead to the fiasco she'd had to endure all those years ago. The tears were still falling and she used the back of her hand to wipe away the ones rolling down to her lip, sniffing frequently.

John eyed her reaction, the concern on his features growing. "Baker Street, it is, then," he replied. "Do you want to gather some things?"

Molly didn't and the sobbing look set to return. He was being so lovely to her and she hated him seeing her like this. She'd never wanted her strong, loyal, wonderful friend to see her dark, terrible past, see her as the pathetic snivelling mess she currently was. She wanted to get him out of her bedsit. He didn't belong there. He was good and kind and she wanted to see him in his own environment again, to take him away from the place that was no longer a home, but a terrible reminder. She wanted to go somewhere that exuded warmth, comfort and safety, like John.

"Can…" she began, pausing to wipe more tears away. "Can we just l-leave…p-please?"

She'd reached the hiccupping stage of weeping and felt even more wretched, but all she saw on John's face was the same expression of compassion and empathy, although it was slowly being eclipsed by another emotion that she couldn't figure out.

"Come on," John said gently, motioning to the doorway.

She made her way out of the bathroom and into the living area, where her eyes immediately connected with the sheets of paper decorating one of the walls. It had been _him_ all along. _He_ was the one killing all those people, just to get at _her_. It was her fault.

"Don't look at them," John urged, gesturing for her to keep moving. "Let the police worry about that, now."

Molly wished she could, but she was far too involved, now, whether she liked it or not.

**0**

The taxi ride was silent and Molly couldn't judge the passage of time. Everything was blending together and all she could think of was the very _last_ thing she wanted to. John let her occupy the main seat, stretching the entire width of the cab and he sat on one of the smaller two opposite, gazing out at the passing scenery. She had tried to do the same, at first, with the hopes that the visual stimulus might distract her mind, but it didn't work. Instead, she tried looking in her friend's direction and guessing his thoughts, but his face was unreadable. What was he thinking? What did he think of _her_? To think she had come so far with their friendship, only for it to be possibly destroyed in one evening.

The vehicle eventually arrived at Baker Street and came to a slow stop. John opened the door to let Molly out, before paying and thanking the driver. The air was chilly and smelt damp, as a rain shower had recently passed. She didn't close her eyes, as she was too afraid to do so, but took several deep breaths and it helped calm her a little. The hiccups had gone, at least.

The tall, black door was unlocked and John held it open, as she entered. Molly let him ascend the stairs first, as he would also need to open the flat door and, just as they reached the top step, a voice sounded below.

"John, Sherlock? Is that you?"

Upon hearing Mrs Hudson, Molly's eyes widened in alarm. She couldn't face any other people right then and John knew this, so hastily pushed the flat door open and told her to head inside, before he went to deal with the landlady. She followed his instruction and slowly made her way into the centre of the cluttered lounge. It was exactly as it had always been, with the two armchairs near the fireplace, a sofa against the wall nearest the door and the kitchen table littered with scientific equipment. Dirty dishes sat in the sink and an unfinished cup of… _something_ rested on the coffee table beside her. It was all so quiet, peaceful and domestic…so different to the place she had just left.

What was going to happen now? The bedsit had become a crime scene and she had absolutely no idea what had become of her attacker. Had John scared him off or were the police currently chasing him across the city? Perhaps Sherlock was involved, or maybe he was still working at the hospital, blissfully unaware and engrossed in the case. A sliver of panic slid down her spine, when she thought of the detective's knowledge of her past. Would he reveal it to everyone, or force her to instead? She didn't want anyone to know, to reveal what a fucking mental case she really was, but what choice did she have? There were now four deaths connected to her and it would be beyond selfish to let the number grow, purely for the sake of her secret. Fear tended to bring out selfishness, though and, if Molly was being truly honest with herself, she really didn't know whether she'd be able to expose the truth.

The loud click of a shutting door made her turn, to see John enter the flat. It surprised the pathologist to see him place her bag on the floor near the entrance, as she hadn't realised he'd even picked it up. Sainthood surely beckoned for that man.

Remaining in the centre of the room, Molly crossed her arms over her chest and couldn't find the courage to look her friend in the eye. Awkward silence followed, until the clearing of John's throat broke it.

"Obviously, your cuts need cleaning," he began. "But...if you want to shower or bathe, you can beforehand. It'd make it easier, actually. Save you trying to keep your bandages dry."

Molly's eyes fell to her clothed self and he knew what she was about to say.

"There are clothes here you can borrow," he said. "Don't worry about that."

"Okay," she whispered in reply.

John went to his bedroom upstairs, in order to find clothes, leaving Molly alone to head for the bathroom. She'd never liked baths, as the thought of lying in dirty water never appealed and, to be honest, wanted to wash off the stench of the evening as quickly as possible.

The bathroom of 221B was palatial in comparison to hers and the first thing to confront her was the mirror hanging over the sink. Molly Hooper didn't recognise herself, because the reflection staring back at her was no longer of Molly Hooper, it was Mary Morstan; a young, terrified blonde covered in bruises, with red rimmed eyes and ashen skin. Molly closed her eyes, willing the image to go away, but it seemed ingrained on her eyelids. Mary carried a disgruntled expression and shook her head, as though disappointed. It was a look that said _I told you so_ , wondering why Molly had ever attempted to rebuild something that was supposed to be damaged. Why fix what you knew was doomed to failure?

Molly shook her head, trying to dispel Mary's harsh tone, but the voice continued, berating her stupidity. She clamped her hands over her ears and lowered into a crouch, resting her forehead on her knees, as the tears came once again.

"Stop it," Molly begged, tasting the salty tears, as they ran into her mouth. "Please, just stop."

Mary refused and turned to the subject of John, laughing at how futile her attempts at friendship were. That really stung, because it was something Molly had come to rely on and the mocking played at her deepest insecurities.

 _What, you're surprised? You've been running round him like a little lapdog, unable to see yourself as_ he _really sees you: a wounded puppy. Of course he'd take you in and offer you help, what kind of ogre wouldn't? It's his_ obligation _to help. It's who he is. But, you're only going to drag him deeper and deeper into your pathetic mess, deeper into danger. And, who knows? Maybe_ he'll _be next. Maybe the next body they drag into the morgue will have the face of John Watson staring up at you!_

A word started echoing in Molly's brain, one that had been said by a man with no comprehension of how deeply his words cut into the soul of another.

Forlorn.

Molly jumped to her feet. She couldn't stay with John, Mary was right. She'd be a burden, a hindrance, like an uncle forced to look after his baby niece, unable to decline without seeming like an arsehole. The killer would be after her and he'd be led right here! She couldn't live with herself being the cause of any hurt coming to John, Sherlock or even Mrs Hudson.

Imbued with terror and self loathing, Molly exited the bathroom and was ready to run back to her bedsit. She could curl up in there and wait out the rest of her miserable life, never emerging, never making contact with the outside world. It was the best she could hope for and all she really deserved.

Reaching the front door, she was confronted with a returning John and they almost collided.

"Molly?" He looked at her, confused. "Where are you going?"

She took a step back and had no idea how to reply. She shifted on the spot from foot to foot and wanted to just push him out of the way, but that involved contact and she couldn't taint him with her presence any further.

"P-please," she begged tearfully. "I-I just need…I can't…"

Sensing the beginning of a major panic attack, John dropped the bundle of clothing to the floor and took a step forward.

"No, no, no!" Molly held her hands out, although didn't extend her arms fully, because it would have brought them even closer to touching. "I can't...it's my f-fault…I have to leave…"

Mary started up again and Molly's palms clutched her temples, as her eyes squeezed shut. The crippling mental torment brought her down to a crouch once again and, with her sight hindered, John took the advantage. Before she could even protest, she was gathered into his arms and overwhelmed with confusion. What was he doing? He was supposed to be pushing her away. She was trying to help him, couldn't he see? He'd get _hurt_!

She made an attempt at freeing herself, but John just tightened his grip.

"No, Molly," he commanded in a neutral and collected tone, as though it was a response to negate all the thoughts spinning round her head.

And, just like that, Molly obeyed. She stopped struggling and let herself be pulled onto John's lap, before bunching the fabric of his jumper in her fists, almost clinging on for dear life. She cried harder and for longer than she ever had before and her body shook with every heaving sob. He let it happen, with only the occasional, soothing hush reaching her ears, before beginning a gentle rocking from side to side. It was very much like the first time she'd broken down in front of him, only things were far worse now. If only she could go back to when her biggest problem was accepting a lunch date.

Gauging how long she had cried for was impossible, but, eventually the heaves lessened and the sobs grew quieter. Molly could feel John's fingers softly brushing against her hair and it was a sensation she hadn't experienced for such a long time, that it almost felt alien. She would have admitted to enjoying it, were fear not holding her back.

A dull throbbing of her left hand became noticeable, but she wasn't ready to let go just yet. John hadn't pushed her away, even when offered the option to do so and her resolve to cease all contact had faltered the moment his arms encircled her. Eventually, the pain grew to uncomfortable levels and Molly was forced to release her grip. Opening the left palm, she saw red smudged garishly over the pale skin and her eyes were drawn to a similar shade decorating John's cream garment.

"Oh," she whimpered, her voice hoarse.

John's hold loosened and a little space was created between them. Molly moved her left arm and her hand filled the gap. He inspected it carefully and didn't appear to care that his top might be ruined.

"It'll be fine," he reassured, his right hand rubbing her shoulder blades.

Exhaustion was claiming the pathologist and she could have fallen asleep right then and there, but did her best to fight it. She didn't want to go to sleep, knowing what awaited her in slumber.

"Let's get you showered, cleaned up and then you can settle on the sofa, alright?" John suggested and she complied, this time letting him help her to her feet and walk her to the bathroom.

With his hand clutching her elbow and an arm around her waist, Molly's aversion to touch had taken a drastic U-turn and, this time, upon entering the bathroom, she made every effort to ensure her eyes _avoided_ the mirror.


	19. 19

** Chapter Nineteen **

Molly was surprised by just how gentle John's touch could be. During the cleaning of her wound, he had made every effort to ensure it was as painless as possible, but the sting of the antibacterial fluid was inevitable. She bit back the hiss, but the pain registered in her face, just as it did when applied to her lip.

During her quick shower, she followed his instruction of assessing her body for any other injuries, but the rest were just bruises and she knew that, the next day, it would feel as if a bus had hit her. To be honest, it already did.

Just as the bandage around her hand was secured, the door flew open and Sherlock came storming in. Molly nearly jumped a mile at the dramatic entrance, which earned the detective an unnoticed scowl from John. Sherlock's breathing was heavy, an indication that he had been running and the displeased expression on his long face confirmed that the suspect had not been apprehended. Molly's stomach turned.

John's attention became focused on his friend, as he awaited a status report.

"Didn't catch him, then?"

"I was so _close_!" the detective declared, angrily pulling the knot out of his scarf, before dropping the item on the nearest surface, which happened to be the back of an armchair. "He jumped on a Tube train, just as it was leaving the station. Lestrade is continuing a search, but I doubt they'll find anything, incompetent as law enforcement can be."

The coat was removed, joining the scarf on the chair and Sherlock spent a few minutes pacing the flat, muttering to himself, with his hands resting contemplatively beneath his nose. "If only I'd got a good look at his face," he murmured, before stopping and glancing quickly at Molly. Their eyes met for only a second, before hers shied away, to land on the floor.

 _Please don't ask me to identify him_ , she silently begged and the prolonged quiet only increased her anxiety. Relief flooded her system, when his muttering and pacing started up again. It didn't last more than another five minutes, before he retrieved the laptop from the coffee table and settled himself into the chair not holding his coat and scarf. Molly had no idea what he might have been using the device for, but he seemed utterly enthralled by it and the room soon lost the man to his musings.

With her hand now fixed, John gathered his medical equipment, before heading upstairs, to store it in his bedroom. Molly was left to her own devices for a moment and used the time to do nothing more than curl up on the sofa, bringing her knees up to her chin and listening to the soft clicking of the laptop keyboard.

"During your stay, I have one request,"

Molly was surprised to hear Sherlock's deep voice, but, looking up, found that his gaze had not left the computer screen…as usual.

"If you _must_ watch endless episodes of Come Dine With Me, you and John are to do so _downstairs_ with Mrs Hudson."

Many things about that statement bewildered the pathologist, but one part in particular struck a chord. "My…stay?"

"I assume you're staying here," he said. "Seeing as your place is now a crime scene, covered in police tape and hiring a hotel room for an indefinite period of time would be a ridiculous waste of money."

"Oh…" was all Molly could think of to say. "Well…um…I don't think we've talked-"

"I fail to see what there is to discuss, seeing as it's the most logical option," the detective declared, matter-of-factly. "It'll appease John, anyway."

Molly decided to leave the conversation there, whilst he was so agreeable with the idea. A chat with John would be required later, though, just to clarify the arrangement. Speaking of the devil, the doctor came trudging back down the stairs and re entered the flat barely moments later, offering tea or coffee to the pair. Sherlock nodded, whilst Molly declined. She couldn't face trying to force anything down and was perfectly happy to spend the remainder of the night exactly where she was.

After carrying just the one drink over to the coffee table, John switched on the television and removed the garments from the unoccupied armchair, before settling himself down. He began flicking through channels and Molly slouched a little in her place on the settee, but was determined to defy the tiredness claiming every inch of her body. Occasionally, she'd feel her eyelids grow heavy, but a quick trip to the bathroom or a rub of the face would keep her conscious. Her battle was noble and bitterly fought, but, eventually, slumber dug its claws in and pulled her under.

**0**

_Shouts._

_Screams._

_Clawing._

_A key that won't fit the lock._

_A light that reveals nothing but terror._

_Pictures on the wall._

_Blood dripping onto the floor._

_A man hiding in the shadows, waiting to pounce._

_Bodies lying on tables, every one of them pointing a finger at her._

_A familiar face, telling her to run, before other faces fly past, covered in scarlet._

_And, lastly, the face that ruled a thousand nightmares; that held sway over every aspect of her life. Never forgotten, never left behind, never to escape._

_Never, never, never, never…_

_NEVER!_

Huge gulps of air entered Molly's lungs, before she gained enough coherence to silence them with a hand across her mouth. A low thudding reverberated in her eardrums, as the blood pumped furiously around her body and she could feel the beat of her heart knocking against her sternum. Her face felt wet with tears that had been shed during sleep and expecting the return of the nightmares had been no preparation for their effect on her, whatsoever.

A few minutes passed, before a new fear emerged. Had anyone heard her? The television was off and the lounge was silent, but that didn't mean that she was alone. Lord knows what noises she might have made, before waking and she wanted to turn on a light, to dispel the shadows that always morphed into the demons of her nightmares, but knew she couldn't. That would probably wake the residents more than anything and Molly would rather struggle against her fears of the dark, than deal with the alternative. Witnesses would have meant questions, which required answers she wasn't yet ready to give.

Shifting position on the settee, the young woman finally noticed the blanket tangled around her legs. With a surprising amount of effort, she kicked it off her body, before reclining once again and brushing damp strands of hair off her forehead. It may have been mid winter, but the exertions of sleeping had made her far too warm.

Molly wondered what the time was, as there was no possibility of her getting any more sleep and dreaded the prospect of spending hours awaiting the dawn. She couldn't see her bag anywhere nearby and didn't possess the energy to search for it, so had no choice but to lay there and stare at the ceiling. Perhaps she would be lucky and only have an hour or two to wait.

Molly never did spy the face watching from the doorway, having heard the mournful whimpers. He'd had many nights like that himself, back when he walked with the aid of a stick. Not a word would be spoken of what the onlooker saw, but he made a pledge to do everything in his power to help the young woman. He had met her at her lowest and refused to let her return to that dark place she tried to bury deep inside.

**0**

Three hours later, the sky started to brighten, but it was another hour and a half, before the flat showed any signs of life. Mrs Hudson was the first to make her presence known, when she entered carrying a tea tray. Molly was tempted to feign slumber and hope the landlady would leave again, but the notion entered her brain too late.

"Morning, dear," Martha whispered, setting the tray down on the coffee table. "Don't mind me, I always bring a pot up for the boys. There's a third cup for you, as well."

Molly felt it would have been rude just to continue lying on the sofa like a vegetable, so levered herself into a sitting position, to the aching protest of her muscles. The pathologist retracted her words from the previous night. It wasn't a bus that had hit her, it was a train!

"Do you need anything, while I'm here?" Mrs Hudson asked. "An extra pillow or something to eat?"

Molly shook her head. "No thank you, I'm fine."

She wasn't sure what John had said to his landlady last night about the reasons for Molly staying with them and a wave of timidity overcame the younger woman. In the end, Mrs Hudson was the one who _really_ had a say over whether Molly could stay or not, as she owned the property and the pathologist wondered whether or not to ask _her_ permission. A thank you would be in order, at the very least and, although not in the right frame of mind to initiate a proper conversation, she forced out a sentence of gratitude.

"Mrs-um-Martha," Molly began, in order to grasp the landlady's attention.

"Yes, dear?"

"Is…um…is it alright for me to be here? Staying, I mean…"

"Oh, don't be silly, of course it is, dear!" Martha declared. "I'd swap one of them for you any day. At least you wouldn't put bullet holes in my walls."

Molly's eyes almost fell out of their sockets. "B-bullet?"

"Oh yeah," Martha confirmed, pointing to the wall above her guest. "Right there. As if the smiley face wasn't bad enough!"

Molly's eyes followed the direction of the finger, to see the gaudy yellow smiley defacing the elegant wallpaper. It was hard to see, but, sure enough, several large impact points were scattered about the face and she gawped at them in disbelief.

"Sherlock?" Molly couldn't imagine John being capable of such wanton destruction.

"Who else?" Martha sighed. "Brilliant lad, but the _worst_ tenant you could imagine!"

Molly could feel the corners of her lips actually tug into the ghost of a smile. Mrs Hudson was such a maternal type and the young woman wondered how she and Sherlock had actually met. It was clear they went back further than tenant and landlady, but she couldn't imagine the circumstances that would lead to their introduction. One day, Molly would ask, certain the tale would be spectacular.

"Mrs Hudson!"

"Speak of the devil," she quipped, winking, before replying to the call from the bedroom. "Yes, Sherlock?"

"In here," was the detective's response.

"I can see that," she replied. "But _I'm_ out here and have no wish to see the state of that room of yours."

"It's important," he insisted, only barely resisting a whiney tone. How old was the detective? Sometimes he displayed the wisdom of an ancient monk, yet, at other times acted like a teenager.

Mrs Hudson let out a sigh of defeat. "Only if you're decent, young man."

She made her way towards the bedroom, heeding her tenant's call and Molly watched, still amazed that Sherlock would shoot a wall. What was he doing with a bloody gun? The neighbours surely must have heard the shots, so had the police been called? She could only imagine what the local force would have made of the detective and his collection of refrigerated body parts.

Mrs Hudson returned from Sherlock's bedroom and offered a wide smile. "Sure you don't want anything, dear?" she double checked, to which Molly declined for a second time. "Alright then. I'll see you later. Don't be afraid to pop down, if you fancy it."

Molly returned the landlady's smile, before the older lady exited the flat. A few minutes later, John emerged, clad in pyjamas and a woollen dressing gown. He greeted her with a nod, as a long yawn escaped his lips, before heading straight for the bathroom. Suddenly unsure of what to do with herself, now that everyone was awake, Molly decided to make up two of the cups of tea and slid off the sofa to kneel by the coffee table.

A flush announced John's impending return and he landed heavily in the armchair facing the window.

"Cheers," he said, grasping the cup Molly pushed towards him and taking a long sip.

The pathologist remained where she was and found it hard to look in John's direction. A new day brought a new perspective of the previous day's events and she was subjected to flashbacks of last night. Shame rested uncomfortably in her gut, not just because of her attacker's actions, but also because of her reaction to them. She'd made such a spectacle of herself, especially when crouched on the floor, not far from the spot she currently occupied, bawling like a baby. As generous and kind as John had been, she still daren't imagine his opinion of her.

The gentle sound of china connecting with wood reached her ears, before her friend spoke.

"Did you sleep?" he asked.

"A bit," she replied, fiddling with the hem of the jogging bottoms he had lent her.

"Cash in the Attic has that effect on me, too," he joked. "Although, I still don't understand why they put repeats of it on so late at night."

She smiled, appreciating the injection of humour, but chose to steer the conversation, so that unwelcome topics could be avoided. Those topics would have to be discussed eventually-she wasn't stupid-but it wouldn't stop her postponing them, for a short while, at least.

"Um…Sherlock and Mrs Hudson are under the impression that I'm staying here," she began, unsure of where her own sentence was actually going. "So, is that the-er…plan?"

John took a swig of tea and studied her, as he considered the question. "Nothing was actually discussed, of course. I s'pose they both just assumed…hang on, what did Sherlock say?"

Molly thought back to the detective's words the night before. "I'm to watch Come Dine With Me downstairs."

John's eyes widened, before he let out a laugh. "Christ! Well, if that isn't a green light…" He rubbed a hand over his face, before it grew more serious. "Obviously, your place is out of bounds for the moment…I think the real question is whether _you're_ happy to stay here. You're more than welcome, but I don't want ot force you into anything."

"I…I just don't want to…y'know…get in the way."

"You're _safe_ , not _in the way_. That's the most important thing here, Molly. How was the sofa?"

Molly's gaze turned over her shoulder briefly, before returning to John. "Fine. As comfy as my own bed, actually." She winced. "That sounds pretty bad."

"It's not. That thing is surprisingly easy to sleep on."

"I've added a second condition to your stay," Sherlock declared, as he sauntered into the living room, before dropping his lanky body unceremoniously onto the settee. "Witless banter is to be limited to one hour a day. I hear enough of it from John and Mrs Hudson; I don't need it further increased by a third presence."

"And when you become a property owner, you'll be able to actually _make_ such conditions!" John retorted, before standing up. "Well, I'm gonna get dressed."

"Oh," Sherlock said, speaking to the doctor, who was making his way to the door. "I believe Mrs Hudson said something about needing a few things from the shop."

"Would it _kill_ you to help out around the place, every once in a while?"

"I earn the money," Sherlock challenged, indignantly.

"And we are forever indebted to you for that, Your Highness," John's voice dripped with sarcasm. "What does she need?" The doctor appeared to be relenting.

"I wasn't listening," the detective replied. "But scones were mentioned."

John paused, his hand on the door knob. "Scones?" His torso turned to face his flatmate. "She's making some?"

Sherlock tilted his chin upwards, giving him an upside down view of his friend. "Large ones."

Some sort of internal struggle began for John, as though deciding between stubbornness and a tasty lunch. Molly's eyes narrowed, as they studied the detective. He was up to something and she wasn't entirely eager to know much more about it. Food apparently won John over and, with a sigh, he stalked up the stairs to his bedroom, in order to prepare for a trip to the shops.

Molly had learnt something new about Doctor Watson.

"He's got a thing for scones, then?" she queried, unsure if her companion would even deign to reply. Did her question fall under the category of witless banter?

"Loves them, apparently."

Molly couldn't help but smile, as Sherlock launched himself off the sofa, just as quickly as he'd fallen onto it. Staying with the detective and his blogger was going to be interesting, to say the least.

**0**

Molly didn't especially feel like getting dressed and, usually, during moments such as these, she would have spent the entire day lounging around her home in pyjamas. Unfortunately, her new living arrangements removed that freedom, but it was one she sacrificed gladly, given the alternative.

Clad in a fresh set of John's clothing and having secured her hair into a low ponytail, she tried to forget the light bruises dusting her jaw, as she exited the bathroom. Upon rounding the corner of the hallway, she was faced with a discerning detective gazing upon a laptop screen, interlaced fingers propping up his chin, as he sat still as a statue at the kitchen table.

"I need to speak with you, Molly."

The young woman halted in her steps and dread filled her stomach immediately. Oh, God, not yet! She didn't want to talk about any of it yet.

"Of course, given that you have yet to reveal your past to John, this couldn't be discussed with him in the flat, so I created a means of removing him from the premises."

Molly frowned in confusion, before realisation dawned. "Scones?"

"Greater men have fallen for less," Sherlock remarked, fingers flying over the keyboard.

Well, that explained what he had been up to earlier, but Molly could also tell by the expression the detective's face that he would accept no refusal. They were going to talk, whether she liked it or not. Hesitantly, she moved forward, until reaching the opposing side of the table from him, but didn't sit down. It was impossible to sit, when her limbs were twitchy with nerves.

"We don't have long," he said, his eyes flitting to the door. "But, I have a couple of questions. Please sit down, your fidgeting is distracting."

When she didn't move, his eyes finally left the screen to focus on her.

"I am not going to force you to recount the event," he informed her. "But, you are no moron, therefore it must have occurred to you that a time will come when you must."

Molly chewed the inside of her cheek, really wishing he would be quiet. He was right, of course, but she wanted to be able to-at the very least-lie to herself for a while. She crossed her arms, to try and cease the fidgeting that annoyed the detective so.

"Molly Hooper, please sit down."

The phrasing of the request caught her off guard. His eyes were locked with hers and the tone was gentle, almost pleading. If she didn't know any better, she would have said he seemed almost… _sympathetic_. She knew this was an event that _very_ rarely occurred, so had no choice but to grant his wishes. Pulling out the chair before her, she sat on th every edge, poised to leave the moment he let her.

"It'll be quick," he promised, ensuring her backside was fully planted on the seat of the wooden chair, before his eyes returned to the laptop. "Firstly, I need to know if the man who attacked you last night _is_ the same who did so seven years ago."

Molly nodded, but he wasn't looking, so was forced to whisper a yes.

"Good."

Molly blanched, appalled at his wording. " _Good_?" she choked.

Sherlock actually had the gall to roll his eyes. "Not _good_ good," he clarified, which did little to mollify the pathologist. "Good, as in, it will make it easier for me to _find_ this man!" A note of glee sparked in his eyes. "But, there is something else we need to discuss."

Molly eyed the man warily. He'd just described an element of a horrific past event as _good_ , so she wasn't looking forward to what came next.

"You started off this investigation as a consultant, but, following yesterday's attack, you are now more of a victim. Until we find him, there may well be more murders, resulting in further bodies requiring your attention. You are one of the best Bart's has to offer, but, if you cannot perform your duties up to your usual standard, there will be little point in you remaining on the case. I need to know now if you feel you can continue consulting on this investigation."

For a while, Molly did little more than gawp at Sherlock, her mouth hanging open in absolute shock and mild disgust. Who…the… _fuck.._? Was he raised by Data? He was the most inhuman, callous, socially deficient and apathetic creature she'd ever met! How could it even occur to him to ask such a thing, with everything that happened less than twenty four hours ago, coupled with his knowledge of her past? She had almost been raped-for a _third_ time-and he was worrying about whether she'd be any good at her _job_?

Molly could hardly process the information and didn't know whether to burst into tears or slap the living shit out of the ridiculous man. In the end, she was forced to deal with things habitually and simply leapt out of the seat and stormed off, heading for the door. She didn't have a plan of where to go and it was a toss-up between hiding in John's room without permission, or heading down the stairs to Mrs Hudson. The landlady was (hopefully) oblivious to Molly's past, so, to avoid awkward explanations or possible admissions, she bolted up the small staircase that lead to 221B's second bedroom.

"Molly?"

John's voice reached her, meaning he had returned from his shopping trip, but she ignored him and carried on, slamming the bedroom door shut behind her. Resting her back against it, the tears started to fall and she immediately covered her face with her hands. Through the floorboards, she heard raised voices and assumed John was berating his insensitive flatmate. _What's the point_ , she thought, bitterly. _It's not like he's suddenly going to develop a bloody conscience, is it? Once a sociopath, always a fucking sociopath!_

"Then… _did…_ do…Sherlock?"

Molly could catch snapshots of the conversation and she had to admit her desire to eavesdrop, which was fuelled as much by fear as simple curiosity. Sherlock might take it upon himself to reveal her past, purely for the sake of his beloved _case_. She turned, wiping her face dry as she did so, and pulled the door ajar.

"-merely assessing her ability to continue working on this case," Sherlock said, apparently defending his actions. "I cannot work with incompetents."

"She's not _incompetent_ ," John cried. "She's recovering from an assault!"

"I never said she was, John, but she's an emotional mess, which will undoubtedly lead to mistakes that I cannot afford!"

"Give the woman a break; it's only been a day!"

"And time is of the essence," Sherlock insisted. "The sooner I know who I can or cannot rely on, the sooner this case can be solved."

"Jesus Christ-" John muttered, as Sherlock continued.

"It already seems I am going to have to endure that other cretin from the morgue from now on, if _that_ display is anything to go by."

Molly assumed the detective was referring to _her_ with that comment.

"And I may also be forced to start taking my skull to crime scenes, as you're becoming a drama queen, too."

" _Drama queen_?" John asked, indignantly. "This isn't drama; this is me pissed off with your total lack of tact!"

"A quality you have often commented on, yet continue to be surprised by."

"You need to apologise," John demanded.

"For what?"

"You bloody well know what!"

"John, I don't have _time_ for apologies, arguments or "sensitivity"." At the last word, the detective's voice became a derisive mockery of the opposite sex. "And I _certainly_ don't have time to deal with your emotional attachment to clients-"

"No!" John yelled and it was a wonder Mrs Hudson hadn't emerged, yet. Perhaps she knew better than to interrupt the pair during a row. Molly had never witnessed such a moment before, as any arguments she'd seen only ever amounted to harmless bickering. This, however, was close to becoming a brawl, by the sounds of it. John's voice dropped a couple of decibels, before continuing. She couldn't hear as clearly, and curiosity drew her out of the bedroom, to the middle of the stairs.

"She is _not_ a client." John stated and there was a dangerous edge to his voice. Molly had never seen this side of him before and wasn't entirely sure how she felt about it. This wasn't her friendly doctor, who met up regularly for coffee and chit chat, speaking anymore. No, this was Captain Watson, a man who brokered no argument. And he was furiously defending _her_.

"She is _not_ some random person, hiring your detective services," the former soldier continued. "And this is _not_ just a means of entertaining yourself to keep a drug habit at bay." The volume of his voice increased slightly, meaning he must have been calming himself down. "This is a friend in serious trouble, who _needs_ help. And, yes, I _am_ emotionally involved, because-guess what-I'm human, Sherlock and, God help me, I _care_. I care about people, about their problems and putting an end to them. I care about this case, about stopping that madman terrorising the streets of London and I _care_ about…"

He stopped, possibly taking in a breath and Molly held her own, waiting to hear him finish, but he didn't and the pause grew to such a length that left her wondering if the argument was over. When he continued, however, his voice had gone so quiet that Molly could barely hear. She inched as close to the door as her levels of bravery would allow. She was pretty sure the pair had no idea of her eavesdropping and she wanted to keep it that way.

"You didn't see her, Sherlock. When I first met Molly, she could barely look in the general direction of a passing stranger. I mean, we're talking about a woman who would only use shops with self-service tills, because she couldn't face human interaction. This all means very little to you, Sherlock, I know, but I don't want to see her go back there again. I don't know what happened to make her that way, but she's come too far forwards to have to fall backwards."

Molly couldn't breathe. Sherlock was absolutely silent during John's castigation, but an opening had arrived that would give him the perfect opportunity to reveal exactly what had happened to her. She waited, starting to offer herself to the first deity who could ensure her secrets were kept safe and the build up of tension was great enough for consideration of legging it out of the building.

"John," Sherlock began, his voice as soft as his friend's. Molly had to silence the squeak of terror trying to leap out of her throat. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to keep her breathing even. "If you care _that_ much, then help me solve this. Forget all the social etiquette; it's unimportant. Catching this man is the best way to help Molly and I have managed to ascertain his identity. So, whilst I bring up the files, you can go and…" the detective sought for the correct word to use. "… _comfort_. Then we get to work."

When silence fell this time around, it was the clear the argument had finally ended and Molly Hooper was left utterly speechless by everything she'd heard. The pathologist had always been riddled with anxiety and paranoia over the opinions of others, especially John, and she had been offered glimpse into what he really thought of her. It wasn't what she expected and left her feeling…overwhelmed.

Suddenly realising that either of the pair could discover her at any moment, Molly quickly and quietly crept back up to John's bedroom and closed the door, before taking in several deep breaths. It was all too much for a person to absorb in less than twenty four hours and she could feel the exhaustion that had lingered from the night before lay claim upon her mind and body once again.

She heard the approaching footsteps and her heartbeat increased, as she wondered how to appropriately respond to John, since hearing what she had. Knuckles rapped on the door, before the doctor called her name. Molly hesitated and was tempted to simply ignore it. He wouldn't hold it against her and she'd be saved the confrontation.

But…

He was worried about her. He _cared_. That knowledge imbued her with a sense of duty to alleviate his worries and slowly propelled her feet forward. She grasped the handle and turned, before tentatively pulling the door open, to see John waiting on the threshold. She could see the anxiety etched into his features, but the argument seemed to have taken something out of him, because she saw the same fatigue she felt hanging over him. Molly felt bad, knowing her troubles were partly the cause, but a strange sensation swirled in her stomach to think she could affect another in such a way.

"Are you alright?" John asked, as his eyes scanned her face to assess her wellbeing.

She nodded and could feel the emotion welling up in her lashes. For the love of God, she _had_ to stop crying! Before the tears could spill over, she moved forward and wrapped her arms around his neck tightly. John almost stumbled back a step in surprise, but quickly recovered and accepted the embrace. Molly wasn't sure why she was hugging him, why she felt the _need_ to, but, as it always had done in the past, his presence calmed, comforted and reassured. Last night had been a terrible night, but she'd endured _far worse_ and had a Hell of a lot to thank John Watson for.

One day, she hoped to repay him, but hated that that time would be so far away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick note: I'm not sure if there's an equivalent in other countries, but Come Dine With Me and Cash in the Attic are both daytime reality shows in the UK, for the entertainment of the older generation, if you get my meaning ;)
> 
> So, how was that? Again, I hope the development of John and Molly's relationship isn't going too fast and hope you're all still enjoying this story.


	20. 20

** Chapter Twenty **

As generous as John Watson could be and as comfortable as the doctor's clothes were, Molly couldn't wear them forever. At some point, she was going to have to accept the fact that a return to the bedsit was necessary. Her palms became sweaty whenever she thought of the place and she wished someone could have gone in her stead, but the only people she knew were men or Mrs Hudson. Having members of the opposite sex handling her underwear wasn't a notion she entertained, but she also felt that everyone had already done more than enough, so it was time for the pathologist to pull her finger out.

Molly hadn't seen anything of Sherlock since the previous afternoon, when he'd asked if she was fit for work. She wondered where he'd spent the night, and hoped his absence had nothing to do with her. She felt awkward enough invading their home, let alone forcing one of the residents away. Then again, this was Sherlock and he wasn't usually one to be bothered by what others thought of him. Well…what _most_ thought of him, anyway. It was more than likely a case of the detective cavorting around the city, fulfilling the duties of a job title he had created.

John had accompanied his friend for much of the evening, but returned home during the very early hours, as his heavy footsteps were heard on the stairs leading up to his bedroom. Nothing more was said about the pair's argument and, despite the pathologist's gratitude for John's thoughtfulness, there was no escaping the fact that everything Sherlock had said was absolutely true. Given the time to separate her emotions from the moment, Molly knew why Sherlock had asked her the things he did. As always, it was all about the work and he had been recruited for a job, one he did very well. Yes, his timing was crap, but that was just the way Mr Holmes was. Emotions held little sway over one fuelled by cold, hard logic.

Still, he _had_ respected her privacy and kept shtoom about her past, which she had to appreciate. Unfortunately, he was also right about the fact that, eventually, her version of events would need to be given, in order to catch the culprit. There was another fear, hidden beneath all the others, that thrummed throughout the compartments of her mind. If caught, there was a very strong possibility that her history would be brought to the fore. No, it wasn't a possibility, it was a certainty and Molly couldn't even _begin_ to assess her feelings on the matter. She was petrified by the thought, especially when remembering the last time he was put on trial. The sick pervert had got away with it before, so what was to stop him escaping justice twice?

She had to stop thinking about it, before the whole situation drove her mad. There was nothing she could do about it, as London's finest was on the case. If anyone could get someone banged up for life, it was Sherlock Holmes. All Molly Hooper could do was try to prepare herself for the inevitable.

**0**

Surprisingly, the very person accompanying Molly to the bedsit was none other than Sherlock, whose return to the flat came at almost midday. Anyone hoping the detective had suddenly developed a conscience would have been sorely disappointed, though, as his motive was to give the place a "proper"-his words-examination.

It was with a deep breath that Molly entered the building and followed the detective up the stairs to the bedsit. Everything was exactly the same, from the odd patches of graffiti on the walls, to the crappy lift, that had been used as a toilet until those particular tenants were evicted. However, the atmosphere of the place had been warped beyond recognition. It wasn't safe here, anymore and she'd known, the moment _he_ had emerged from the shadows of her lounge, that she wouldn't spend another night in there.

Her previous abode was easily identifiable, by the gaudy police tape still criss-crossing the entrance. It was a like a beacon of horror, alerting everyone to the fact that something bad had happened there. No police officers were present, which probably fit Sherlock's preference. It was hers, too, given that she preferred not to have an audience, as she rifled through her wardrobe.

Reaching the front door, the keys were still in Molly's possession, but she held them out to the man beside her. There was a pause, before he took the keys without comment and unlocked the entrance. The click of the lock immediately increased her heart rate and she wished John could have been with them, if only to be a comforting presence at her side. Unfortunately, being the blogger of a consulting detective wasn't a guaranteed wage earner, resulting in his application to be a locum at a nearby surgery. Today was the first shift he'd been offered for quite some time and she'd encouraged his acceptance, unsure if a trip to the bedsit would be happening that day and thinking he deserved a break from chasing criminals. What a curse hindsight could be.

The pair ducked under the tape, which was far more of an effort for the lanky detective, than it was the petite pathologist and they were finally stood inside the bedsit. Molly's eyes flew to the wall, where the pictures had once hung, but they were no longer there, having been collected as evidence. For a moment, she simply stood in the middle of the room and nervously fiddled with the strap of her bag, trying to block out the flashbacks. She could remember it all with such clarity, as image after image assaulted her brain. The sounds were probably the worst thing of all, as they made her want to cower on the floor and cover her ears to block them out.

The door creaked and Molly almost leapt in the air, as her torso span to assess the cause.

"Molly,"

Sherlock's voice reached her and she looked towards the bathroom, which he was about to enter.

"He is not here," he said. "Collect your things."

She nodded, before chewing the inside of her cheek. Sherlock was right and his words echoed in a loop in her mind, as she began gathering clothing to take back to Baker Street.

_He is not here. He is not here. He is not here._

She wasn't sure how long her stay at 221B would last, so chose to take as much with her as she could carry. A small suitcase resided in her wardrobe, so she went to retrieve it, but her attention was seized by Sherlock, as he crouched on the bathroom floor, gazing intently at the linoleum through a small, fold away magnifying glass. Beside him lay an open roll of black, containing a number of small instruments, ranging from a scalpel to a ballpoint pen. After closing the magnifying glass and slotting it into its rightful place, he removed the scalpel and retrieved something from his left coat pocket. It was a small, clear plastic bag, into which he deposited the scrapings of something he'd found on the floor. Had she cared to look closer, she would have realised that something was a dried bloody footprint, but she chose that moment to continue with her task.

By the time Molly had finished gathering all her necessary effects, Sherlock was by the wall where the pictures had been, but, again, it was the floor getting all his attention. A frown creased his brow, before his phone came out and he started taking pictures. She wasn't sure what the fuss over that particular patch of carpet was and thought it would've made far more sense to photograph the faint, muddy shoeprints, leading from the front door to the bathroom, but she wasn't one to question the detective. He had his reasons and she was happy to let him continue.

Molly waited patiently near the door, out of his way, until his examination was complete. It was intriguing to watch him work and she used that fascination to distract from the horror of which the bedsit would forever be a reminder. He was lost in another world and his eyes moved around the place, like a hawk during a hunt. This moment, like those she had witnessed at times in the labs or morgue of St Bart's, reminded her of the brilliance Sherlock possessed, of the incredible ability he had to see what others could not. It really was a gift, one he evidently revered and she wondered why he had never actually joined the police force. Then again, she could imagine him getting sacked pretty quickly with some of his antics and attitude.

Finally, Sherlock stilled and his eyes did one last sweep of the room, before slowing reaching Molly. Her eyebrows rose, asking if he was ready.

"Yes," he replied, his voice slow and thoughtful, as though his mind hadn't quite returned to reality. "I think so."

Pulling up the retractable handle of the suitcase, she ducked beneath the tape to exit the abode, pulling the case behind her. Sherlock wasn't far behind and still in possession of the keys, so locked the door behind them. He offered them back to her, but she shook her head.

"Keep them," she said, walking alongside him down the corridor. "In case you need to go back in there."

There was no argument, as the keys swiftly returned to his coat pocket.

"Was it helpful, looking around?" she asked.

"It was," he answered, his voice still possessing that introspective quality.

She wondered where his thoughts might be taking him, but didn't ask, for fear of becoming a distraction.

The journey back to Baker Street was a quiet one, but Molly didn't mind. It was nice to experience the quiet every now and then. She was surprised by the arrangement of the hands on the clock face inside the flat, because it was only two and a half hours after they had left. The pathologist was starting to find it difficult to judge the passage of time and the realisation was a dangerous one. It was how it had begun before, by the minutes blending together, until the hours became one long day and, before she knew it, a whole week would pass without acknowledgement. Were it not for the dates stamped onto medical records, proving the length of her stay at the hospital, she would have never believed the doctors.

Molly needed to find focus, before she fell into the pit of depression and anxiety once again. She wasn't entirely sure where to begin and it didn't help that so many of her surroundings reminded her of what had almost happened. Yesterday, Sherlock had asked if she would be able to work, following her assault and, whilst it would certainly save her languishing the days away indoors like a vegetable, it would also mean the possibility of more marked corpses crossing her path. Knowing the culprit, how would she react to seeing one, now?

There was always the option of requesting to be taken off the case, but something kept her from doing so. It all went back to the time when Sherlock had given her his first unintentional compliment. He'd called her colleague, Joseph, a moron, before demanding to work with her-someone who knows what they're doing. It may not have sounded like much, but coming from _him_ , it was as close to a glowing recommendation as anyone could wish for. The desire to live up to his expectations had given a much needed kick up the arse to work, on the days that sleep had eluded her and it was still there now, nudging her and making her feel twitchy, when the last couple of mornings had been spent lying on a sofa.

Could she do it, though? That question still very much remained. Could she go straight back to work and face the latest victim of that depraved piece of shit? What choice did she really have? Molly had already admitted to herself how selfish fear made her, but there had to be a limit to that selfishness. Letting others suffer purely for her own benefit, whether it be by forcing another pathologist to catch up on the work she already had full knowledge of, or making things difficult for Sherlock, as he'd probably have to work with a less than cooperative Joseph, had no justification.

With her mind made up, it was a requirement to inform St Bart's of her impending return. Would the following day be too soon? No, it would be stupid to postpone, as she'd only spend the day worrying about work, anyway.

Returning to the present, Molly opened her suitcase and removed a few items of clothing, before situating it in the small gap between the right arm of the sofa and the wall. After changing in the bathroom, she gathered John's clothes and looked around for a washing machine, before turning to Sherlock.

"I…I was going to do a wash," she said. "Do you, um, have a washing machine?"

"Mmhh," was the absent reply from the detective, who appeared to be thoroughly engrossed by the screen of his phone.

She vaguely remembered him taking a few pictures of the carpet that had fascinated him so and, as his response had been of such little help, she was forced to see if Mrs Hudson was home. It turned out that 221B did not, in fact, have a washing machine, as an arrangement had been made where _she_ did their washing for them. Molly's lips had twitched with mirth upon discovering that fact, as the landlady's famous words echoed in her brain:

_I'm not your housekeeper!_

The pathologist had heard them uttered many a time, whenever her tenants requested she do something about the house for them. Could Mrs Hudson really blame them for treating her as such from time to time, when she did so many housekeeping things for them? She was certainly far more obliging than any landlord/lady Molly had dealt with.

The young woman decided to see if Mrs Hudson required any help with any other chores, after having retrieved Sherlock's dirty washing and her assistance was politely declined at first, as was the English way, before Molly asserted that she was happy to do so. There wasn't a great deal to do, besides folding or ironing clothing and providing a listening ear. Mrs Hudson did so love having company and, over the past couple of months, Molly had always happily listened to whatever tales the older woman had to tell. It was a surprisingly easy and enjoyable way to pass an afternoon. Sherlock probably appreciated the alone time, upstairs, as well.

There had been just enough time for the pathologist to call work, before John returned home a little after six, his arrival heralded by a strong scent of food. He'd apparently picked up Chinese on the way home and, although her appetite still left a lot to be desired, Molly didn't protest, not wishing to be rude.

"Are you sure?" John asked, seeking clarification, having been informed of his friend's decision to return to work.

"Yeah," she affirmed, as a plate was handed to her by him.

John settled beside her on the sofa, his voice low to avoid the attention of the other two members of the household. "It's not because of him, is it?"

The doctor's head jerked in the direction of the kitchen, where Sherlock was still sat, almost three and a half hours after he had returned home. At least he had finally removed his coat.

"No, no," she insisted, looking down at her plate. It was a lie, as Sherlock was the reason, but not in the way John thought. The detective hadn't bullied her into it; rather, he'd _inspired_ her to. "No, I want to go back. At the very least, this investigation _needs_ to be finished…" she trailed off and, when she spoke again, her voice was closer to a whisper. "…and I know what'll happen if I don't."

John didn't say anything, but nodded in understanding. He'd first met her not long after her discharge.

"Besides," she continued, the volume of her voice rising once again. "I don't really have any sick leave left to take."

John nodded a second time, before offering a small smile. "Well, if you're ready and willing, then I'm glad."

Molly smiled back, before her eyes returned to the plate and the food that had once been so unappetising, started to grow a little in appeal. After all, she wouldn't be up to much good at the morgue, without at least _one_ decent meal in her belly.

**0**

Sleep had once again proven to be elusive, but the nerves kept Molly's senses sharp, as she readied herself for a shift at St Bart's. She'd tried to be as quiet as possible, not wishing to wake anyone, as she showered and dressed, because, as happy as any of them might be about her quick return to work, she doubted they'd appreciate a seven AM wake up call.

Leaving the bathroom, Molly headed for her bag, where she knew a few hair bands resided and pulled them onto her wrist, before straightening up again to start brushing her hair.

"What are you doing?"

The unexpected voice wrenched a yelp from the young woman, which was cut short by both her hands covering her mouth, as she spun to see Sherlock sitting in one of the armchairs. He was clad in a blue dressing gown and plain pyjamas, with a mass of dark, messy curls atop his head, meaning he had awoken some time during her shower. He was gazing at her, curiously.

Remembering that he had asked a question, her cheeks flushed a little, when she was unable to recall the exact words.

"I'm sorry. What?"

"I said," he replied, his commanding voice slowing down, as though speaking to a child. "What are you doing?"

Molly's brows came together in an expression of mild confusion, before she held up the brush clutched in her left hand. "Um…brushing my hair?" It hadn't meant to come out as a question, but his unreadable gaze always filled her with uncertainty.

"No," he said, before standing and taking a step towards her. "Why are you up? Why are you dressed? Where are you going?"

His looming presence made her shrink a little. "Work," she eventually answered, feeling like a criminal on trial and hoping the four letter word would satisfy all three of his queries.

For a long moment, Sherlock did little but assess the woman with his intense icy blue gaze, before his face morphed into a countenance of satisfaction. "Excellent." He turned, making his way back to his bedroom, speaking to her over his shoulder. "I trust you'll have the lab ready for my visit this morning, to analyse the blood samples taken from your bedsit."

"Um…okay," she said, but the words fell on deaf ears, as the door slammed shut.

Just how did John Watson cope with such a flatmate?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There we are, a less plot heavy chapter for now, but I think it was necessary to move the story along. Hope you all enjoyed :)


	21. 21

** Chapter Twenty One **

Joseph Cornwell was the first face Molly Hooper's eyes met, when she entered the hospital. He strode towards her and it required all of the young woman's willpower to keep the groan locked tight in her throat. Couldn't he give her five minutes? She would be sure to offer all the apologies she could about him covering her shifts for the last couple of days, if he would only give her five minutes.

"There you are!" he declared, striding towards her. "Are you alright?"

Well, Molly certainly hadn't expected _that_. Seeing the blank look on her face, Joseph recognised the need for clarification.

"I'm assuming _something_ happened," he said, falling into step with her. "The dynamic duo goes racing off, not long after you leave, then you're not in for a couple of days…"

"Oh, it-it's nothing," she insisted, unwilling to go into any detail. "I'm fine."

"Well, that's convincing _no one_ , but I won't push. As long as you're alright."

Molly was touched by his concern. Yes, Joseph had a tendency to annoy, but he wasn't a bad person, their personalities simply didn't mesh all that well. He accompanied her all the way to the lab, bringing her up to date with any important information she needed to know. No more defaced bodies had arrived, for which Molly felt a surge of relief and, apparently, one of the canteen staff had been subjected to a marriage proposal in the middle of the lunchtime service.

At least someone was having a good week.

Apparently, the fates decided to be kind to her, as her shift was entirely routine and uneventful-except for Sherlock's presence in the lab, of course. When he was around, nothing was ever routine. The detective was as uncommunicative as ever and whatever was in the sample he'd mentioned that morning, it kept him very quiet. She wondered what result he might be looking for with the analysis, but, as ever, remained respectfully quiet, whilst the detective worked.

The post mortem requiring Molly's attention was of a twenty year old male, who'd died in a moped accident. She read through the report that had accompanied the body and winced when she read through his injuries. No matter how many people she'd examined over the years, her empathy had not been dulled and the thought of losing several layers of skin from the right leg sent a shiver down her spine.

All in all, Molly felt she was coping well with returning to work so soon after the assault. Of course, the big difference this time around, in comparison to the other two, was that the latest attempt had been unsuccessful. She wasn't completely unscarred by the event, as her nightmares would remind her in the middle of _every_ night, for goodness knows how long, but hadn't suffered the gigantic backwards leap in her psychological recovery she'd feared.

For all the pride she felt at not turning into a terrified wreck of a human being, there was still the underlying anxiety of seeing another of those messages carved into a human body. She knew it was going to take a toll on her, knowing that the person responsible appeared to be doing it for _her_ benefit. Those thoughts were quickly ignored.

When she returned to the lab a while later, Sherlock was nowhere to be seen, although all the equipment he'd been using was still there. For a moment, she assumed he had simply left and neglected to clear anything away-not an uncommon occurrence-but, soon realised he was still working. She doubted he'd popped off for a coffee, as that was usually a task he reserved for her, so was left wondering where he might have gone.

Joseph waltzed into the lab and eyed the abandoned display disdainfully. "If _I_ did that, Mike would be on me like a fat man at a buffet."

Molly turned her face, so he wouldn't see her eye roll. That man needed to get over himself. Whatever his issues with Sherlock, there was nothing anybody could do about him being there, if those upon high deemed it acceptable for the detective to conduct his experiments at St Bart's. Besides, it was an important investigation he was working on and there was nothing to say Sherlock wasn't coming back. He might've just nipped to the loo, for all they knew.

"It looks like he's coming back," Molly defended. "And, if not, I'll sort it before I leave and give him grief later on."

"Course you will," Joseph retorted, full of disbelief.

Molly ignored the comment and went back down to the morgue.

Roughly an hour later, when the pathologist was writing up her notes on the post mortem she'd just finished, the door opened a crack and John's face appeared. She looked up from the paper and gave him a welcoming smile that encouraged him to enter the room properly.

"Am I interrupting?" he asked, approaching her table.

"No," she assured. "Just finishing off some notes."

John tilted his head to read some of the writing a little better. "Never liked mopeds," he commented. "Bloody death traps, especially on London roads."

Molly nodded in agreement, having seen more than a few bike accidents enter her morgue over the years.

"How's it going?" he queried, and she knew he was no longer speaking of the autopsy.

She put the pen down and looked up at him. "Good," she replied. "Better than I expected, actually. There haven't been any more bodies to, y'know, do with the case and I haven't heard a lot from Sherlock, either and he's been upstairs all day. Although, he disappeared a while ago."

"Yeah, I was just with him," John revealed. "He wanted to look at something at your bedsit. We were going to come back here, but he needed something from the flat, so I carried on ahead. Did you really let him keep your keys?"

"Well, I don't need them," she said. "Not until this is all done, anyway and, even then, it'll only be to move all my stuff out."

"Not going back, then?"

Molly paused and fiddled with the pen lid, before answering. "I can't," she admitted.

"Can't say I blame you. It's not the most luxurious of places to live, either."

"All I could afford at the time. Statutory Sick Pay doesn't get you far on the housing market in this city."

"Tell me about it," John chuckled, leaning his elbows on the table. "Only managed to get Baker Street by finding a landlady willing to charge far below what her place is worth."

"Wish I could be so lucky."

"It's not luck," John informed her. "She owed Sherlock a favour."

"Really?" Molly was intrigued, as she _had_ wondered at the connection between the two. "Solve a case for her, did he?"

"Umm…yeah…"

There was something in John's tone which said that there was a lot more to it than that.

"Well, don't just stand there," Molly demanded. "What was it, or can't you say?"

"Oh, I can say, but it's pretty remarkable. Still have trouble believing it, myself." John took a moment to prepare. "Basically, Sherlock helped Mrs Hudson get her husband executed."

Molly's jaw fell open. On a scale of one to ten, that comment ranked about a twenty on the chart of the unexpected.

John laughed. "That was pretty much my reaction."

"B-but…that's…I mean…" Molly had trouble forming coherent thought. "Fucking Hell," she eventually breathed. "Talk about a dark horse."

John laughed even more. "Oh, she is that. She'd have to be, to willingly let Sherlock be a tenant, having already met him."

"She's achieved the ultimate goal of every ex wife known to man."

They both laughed at this comment and Molly felt warmth spread through her, at this moment of levity. She hadn't done this for a couple of days, but it felt so much longer and she had truly missed it. She loved nothing more than having a chat and giggle with John and doing so, after such an awful couple of nights, felt like taking a gulp of fresh air, after holding your breath for a very long time.

"I missed that," he said, pointing at Molly. She frowned in confusion, which forced him to elaborate. "You smiling, laughing, relaxing a bit."

Self-consciousness flooded her, making her fiddle with the pen again. "It's nice to do," she said, quietly, aware of the blush heating up her face.

Molly was suddenly conscious of their situation, of how they were positioned. He was so close, with their arms brushing and his face was level with hers. If she lifted her eyes, they would have been met by his. Those lovely green-blue eyes that could always tell when she was in trouble and sought to alleviate her worries in any way they could.

Her eyes moved unbidden, travelling along the table and up his arm, to reach his face and found him looking right back at her. A small smile kept the corners of his lips upturned and she wished for a mirror, to see herself as he saw her. He really was… _good_. Too good. Why was he so good and why did he so readily seek to offer her his companionship? People couldn't be that nice for no reason. Could they? There had to be _something_ wrong, because look at who he associated himself with. No normal, sane person would willingly live and work with a man like Sherlock Holmes. Nobody with any sense would choose to run around a city, chasing criminals, getting bombs strapped to their chests and receiving threats from Asian assassins, would they?

But…they were helping people. John and Sherlock did all those ridiculous things to stop the criminals from hurting others and, whilst the detective was aloof and devoid of emotion, John actually _cared_ , he'd said so. He cared. He cared about…

Molly's senses were overloaded and, with John so close, within her reach, she wanted…she wanted to…

No! Nothing good came of _that_. _He_ had made sure of it. It was painful and humiliating and allowed them to force their will upon you, terrifying you into silence, before promising to leave and never come back. But they did. All promises were broken and they always came back.

But John had stopped it, stopped _him_. She didn't have a John last time. John was a doctor and they were meant to _help_ , not harm. And he _had_ helped. He'd looked after her, given her a place to stay and hadn't pushed her away, even after she'd made a fool of herself in the middle of his lounge.

It didn't matter, though. The memories remained and, no matter what, no matter whom, she would always associate… _that_ with nothing but pain and horror. It was the crippling reminder of how pointless her efforts of recovery could be and left her feeling terribly deflated.

To the pathologist's everlasting gratitude, the beep of a phone interrupted the moment and she saw a hint of annoyance cloud John's features, before he reached into his jacket pocket. He read the message and let out a soft sigh, before replacing the device into the pocket.

"His Majesty awaits," John announced, before his eyes found her again. "I'll see you soon, yeah?"

Molly nodded, but couldn't meet his gaze. Those orbs were too painful to look at, because they promised so much that she couldn't have.

John started walking towards the exit of the morgue, before his phone beeped again and he stopped to read the second message. His torso swivelled to face Molly. "Apparently, the summons includes you, too."

**0**

"John," Sherlock called, barely seconds after the former soldier had opened the lab door. "Look at this."

He pointed to the screen of the computer he was staring at, as John and Molly walked over to where Sherlock sat.

"What do you see?"

"Molly's bedsit," John replied, before his eyes fell onto the man beside him.

"Excellent observation, John," the detective retorted. "But, really look at the picture. Look at the wall, look at the carpet. What do you _see_?"

Molly's curiosity had been piqued down in the morgue, following Sherlock's text and she joined the pair, standing a short way behind the two, peeking at the enlarged picture. It was in full colour and must have been extracted from Sherlock's phone. It was a photo of the wall where the threatening pictures had been, except no emphasis was put on those particular items, as they were all cropped in the middle. No, the real emphasis had been placed on the carpet and Molly was seriously hoping an explanation for the fascination would present itself.

John's gaze was fixed forwards, as his eyes roamed the image. "Er…well, there's the wall, with the pictures. Um, to the left is the end of Molly's bed. The rest of the wall is bare…" he paused, examining the picture further, before turning his attention to the man beside him. "Look, you're already on to something, so just tell me what it is. I'm never going to find it."

"Keep looking," Sherlock urged, his eyes having yet to leave the computer screen.

John sighed, before complying. "The carpet. Right." He leaned forward. "Well…erm…it's sort of a navy, greyish blue. Plain. Nothing really of note, except the footprints leading to the bathroom-"

"Exactly!" Sherlock exclaimed, which made Molly jump and even startled John. "The footprints lead to the bathroom! Molly's attacker wore size eleven waterproof boots, carrying a thin layer of mud. His prints lead from the hallway, through the front door and all the way into the bathroom, where blood was added to the mixture. At no point do any prints lead to the wall where the photos were pinned. They weren't there when Molly left that morning, meaning the culprit would have placed them there during her eight hour absence. Of course, her attacker may have broken in and hung the pictures, before leaving and returning in different shoes to await her return, but that makes no sense! Why risk two break-ins, when one would suffice? What possible reason would he have needed to change shoes?"

Molly's heart was racing, as Sherlock's deductions rolled off the tongue. His carpet fascination was being explained, but she was no longer so curious. In fact, she wanted him to stop speaking, because she knew the conclusion of the detective's deductions would not be good.

John, apparently, didn't share her opinion. "So…what are you saying?"

Sherlock finally looked away from the computer and swivelled in the chair to face him. "I don't think the man who attacked Molly was the same person who pinned the pictures to her wall."


	22. 22

** Chapter Twenty Two **

Sherlock was on his feet in a flash. Now that he had picked up a major clue, there was absolutely no time to waste. Molly and John had both taken a step back, to keep out of the detective's way, who'd become a whirlwind of action. Clearly Molly _would_ be the one clearing up his work station that day.

"We have to find Thomas!" he declared, marching for the exit.

John looked utterly baffled, which Molly was thankful for, because it meant he didn't see the grimace of pain contorting her features.

"Who's Thomas?" John asked, following his flatmate.

"Mary's rapist!" came the detective's distant reply.

Molly fell back against the counter and gripped it for support. She couldn't breathe and felt her temperature soar, as panic struck her heart. She had never expected to hear either of the two names Sherlock had just spoken and both hit her like a blow to the stomach. She felt sick and wanted to run out the room, but the people she wished to avoid were already doing so.

"Who's _Mary_?"

John's second question wrenched a gasp from the pathologist's lips. Had that inevitable day come already? It was too soon! She's wasn't ready and her eyes started to well up with tears.

John, who was halfway between Molly and the door, turned back to her to say a hasty goodbye and saw the sheer horror on her face. He was suffering an internal battle over whether to run after one friend, or stay and comfort another. For her part, Molly was oblivious to his conflict, because she was facing a battle of her own.

John raced back to her and she felt his hands grasp her shoulders.

"Molly," he said. "Are you alright?"

 _Oh, you have no idea, you lovely, wonderful, kind man,_ she thought. _But, you will and then you'll leave and I don't want you to!_

"John!" Sherlock hollered from the corridor outside.

"I'll be back soon, alright?" John promised and she just about possessed enough will to nod, before the doctor turned, to heed the call of the consulting detective.

Molly was left a bewildered, terrified mess. What had just happened? What…the… _Hell_ just happened? It was over in a flash, but had such a profound impact on the distraught young woman, that she was unable to process it all. The tears spilled over her lashes, rolling down her flushed cheeks and she started to inhale rapid gulps of air, as her pulse went haywire. Her hands were shaking and she tried to lift them, in order to wipe away the shameful tears, but they seemed to have a mind of their own, preferring to remain at her side, whilst the fingers clenched and flexed.

What was she going to do? Would Sherlock realise his error? Why did he open his big bloody mouth? Of all the things for the inhuman, idiotic-no, that wasn't fair. The fault wasn't his, as he was simply enraptured by the case. When that happened, it took precedence over everything else and, in the end, it wasn't _his_ fault the woman was a fucking nutter.

There might be a chance Sherlock _wouldn't_ reveal her past. He could always brush it off as something unimportant…couldn't he? Anxiety swam in rapid circles inside the pathologist's stomach and she wondered if it would be safer to spend a while near a basin, in case the nausea grew to be too much and needed to be expelled. She regretted her decision to return to work. Had she stayed at home, she'd have been completely oblivious to Sherlock's verbal mishap and wouldn't have to endure God knew how long, anxiously waiting for the outcome.

The unease of her stomach soon reached unbearable levels, so she rushed to the nearest bathroom. There were plenty of basins scattered about the lab, but she preferred to keep such an undignified display private. There wasn't even time to properly lock the cubicle door, as the retching began and she emptied what little contents of her stomach there where. The bile burnt against her throat, but she masochistically welcomed the pain, as it gave her mind something else to focus on. Well, for a minute, anyway.

The vomiting was over as quickly as it had begun and Molly sat on the tiled floor, resting her back against the cubicle wall, brushing a few tendrils of hair back from her face, that had come loose during the exertions. How had the day suddenly turned so vile? One minute, she was sitting with John-in the morgue of all places-and laughing easily, then- _BOOM-_ the day turned to crap. There was nothing for it, but to cry again.

_Always crying!_

She could feel Mary creeping up on her again and that was ample incentive for Molly to straighten her neck, tilt her head back, close her eyes and take several deep breaths. She had known this day would come and it had simply arrived sooner than expected, that was all. There was no guessing John's reaction and she would beg forgiveness for her deception, should he so wish it.

Letting out a yell of desperate frustration, Molly smacked the back of her head against the wall, before locating the energy to climb to her feet. The temptation to walk out of the hospital was hard to fight, but she knew she couldn't without facing some serious consequences. Her employers had been very understanding over the past year, but there was only so far their sympathies could be stretched.

Feeling thirty years older and fifty pounds heavier, with all the angst she was carrying, Molly slowly made her way out of the bathroom. Despite her personal turmoil, there was work to be done and, even if she _knew_ there was no chance of it distracting her overwrought mind, one could always _hope_.

**0**

John was absolutely exhausted! The day may not have started as early for him, as it had done his flatmate-flat _mates_ , he corrected himself-but he'd done enough running around to last a lifetime. It had been decreed by Sherlock that the doctor head straight for Scotland Yard and inform them of the latest development in the case. The detective's mouth had run a mile a minute and the words were expelled at a rate that made it hard to absorb the information.

The idea that more than one culprit was responsible for the murders they were investigating left a cold feeling settling in the doctor's stomach, especially when coupled with the fact that whoever it was had broken into Molly's flat to plant the photos. The severity of the case was now doubled and the Yard had deemed it important enough to involve Lestrade, much to DI Dimmock's displeasure. There were always power struggles present in the force, but John could only hope that they were professional enough not to let their egos take precedence over innocent lives.

During the journey back to Baker Street, John had chance to mull over Sherlock's cryptic words in the lab. The detective had clarified that Thomas Jackson was the man who had assaulted Molly-which ignited a fire of rage in the doctor-but the detective had neglected to explain who Mary was. She'd apparently been raped by the Thomas character, however, any requests for elucidation had been ignored and he had an uneasy feeling that something was being withheld. John hoped Sherlock wasn't choosing that moment to display signs of uncharacteristic sensitivity, worrying how his blogger would react to the notion that Molly's fate had so nearly echoed Mary's. It was disturbing, John admitted, but his friendship with the pathologist wasn't going to hinder his work on the case. If anything, it only encouraged him to work harder, in order to find the sick bastard.

As the newly discovered second culprit was still unknown, Sherlock believed their best bet was to find Jackson and coerce the information out of him. To do so, the detective had gone back to the flat, where all his notes and files were and John could only hope a lead had emerged by the time he walked through the front door. Originally, John had intended to return to the hospital and check on Molly, as she'd appeared so flustered after Sherlock's revelation of a second killer. He wanted answers, though and was ready for another argument with his flatmate in order to get them.

The flat was silent, when John entered, but the black coat and dark blue scarf draped over an armchair meant Sherlock was still present. The doctor didn't bother making his presence known and chose to wait by the kitchen table, where files were scattered and the laptop was open. His friend had apparently known the identity of Molly's attacker for a while, judging by the files he had already acquired and a spark of irritation ignited within. Why hadn't Sherlock bloody told him? John may not be a genius, but he had _some_ uses! At the very least, John could have done some digging around for information, but that would have required teamwork from the man who had once referred to his flatmate as a replacement skull. It was nice to feel so valued.

Glancing at the laptop's screen, John saw a black and white mug shot of a man, who appeared to be in his early forties. A quick scan of the paragraph below the picture revealed that it was the countenance of Thomas Jackson he had just laid eyes upon and the fury he'd felt on behalf of Molly resurfaced.

Seeing it as the perfect opportunity to find the answers he sought, without having to deal with his contrary companion, John moved the device, so that the screen was fully facing him and started scrolling down the page. Jackson had quite a record, it seemed, which included being on trial for rape, although he'd been found not guilty. The doctor was reluctant to believe that, given what the pervert had attempted with his friend a couple of nights ago, but who was he to argue with the justice system?

Moving further and further down the page, he skimmed through the information, until his eyes fell upon something that made him stop. It was another picture, this time of a young woman and he recognised her immediately. However, the name printed below it wasn't the one he'd expected to see.

The sound of the toilet flush lifted John's eyes from the laptop and he straightened, waiting for Sherlock to emerge. The detective clearly hadn't expected his friend to be there and, under other circumstances, the former soldier would have enjoyed having the element of surprise for once. This time, John Watson had far more important things to do than gloat.

Sherlock stopped at the living room entrance, having been confronted with John's expression. His brilliant eyes flitted between the man and the laptop, before realisation quickly dawned. The detective squared his shoulders, ready to face whatever John might throw his way.

John's right hand clasped the top of the laptop screen. "Who is Mary Morstan?" he asked, turning the device, until it faced Sherlock. "And why does she look _exactly_ like Molly Hooper?"

**0**

The notes were written, reports filed and the mess left by Sherlock was cleaned up. Molly felt beyond crap, as the shift was longer than any she had endured and, it seemed that the places which offered solace were dwindling day by day. First her bedsit, now Baker Street. No word had come from either Sherlock or John and there was no telling if that was a good or bad thing. The lack of demands for her to admit her past was a positive, but that could have been because John was too angry or upset to contact her. It had only been a couple of hours, though. God, she really hated being a human being sometimes (or a poor attempt at one, at least). Did any other species have to deal with all the social bullshit people endured?

Molly knew things were bad, when she started assessing whether she could afford a hotel room for the night. Unfortunately, her wages weren't due for another week and she didn't have anyone to borrow money from, so, it seemed the pathologist had no choice but to return to Baker Street and face the music.

The closer she got to her destination, the more wretched she felt and her brain scrambled for the faintest sliver of hope, to remove her from the situation she desperately wished to avoid. Perhaps they weren't home, or there had been no further discussion about the names mentioned. Was remaining under the radar so much to ask for?

Her desire to avoid confrontation prompted Molly to ring Mrs Hudson's doorbell, rather than that of flat B. After a minute of waiting, Martha opened the door with a smile and Molly did her very best to reciprocate, but failed miserably.

"Everything alright, dear?" the kindly woman asked, concern etched into her aging features.

"Just a long day," the pathologist half lied, before entering the building.

"The boys are home already," the landlady informed her, unaware of how unhelpful that information was.

Molly simply nodded and started chewing the inside of her cheek, as her fingers sought to tangle themselves nervously in her bag strap. The staircase felt like a mountain of impending doom and she climbed the steps slowly, trying to delay the inevitable.

At the top of the stairs, she stopped, not entering the flat immediately. Instead, she closed her eyes and took a very deep breath, before exhaling slowly through her mouth and reaching for the door handle. It was unlocked, confirming Mrs Hudson's words about the "boys" being home. Her heart felt as though it might burst through her chest, as the open space between the door edge and its frame steadily grew.

She took one step into the flat and was confronted with two pairs of eyes focusing on her. John and Sherlock were stood side by side at the kitchen table, with the laptop before them. The second she saw what was on the screen, she knew it was over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eeek! How was that? I hope this chapter isn't to short or rushed for anyone. As one of the major points of the story, I really hope it's working out alright. Any suggestions are welcome :)


	23. 23

** Chapter Twenty Three **

Three people stood in a room.

One was crippled by horror, having one of her greatest fears come true. The second, despite denying emotion, felt guilt filling his veins. The third was putting the pieces together and sorrow sat heavily on his shoulders. Two dramatic revelations had arrived that day and they held the power to dramatically change the lives of at least two thirds of the trio.

One was Molly Hooper, formerly Mary Morstan, who could barely remember how to breathe, as the knowledge that the second, John Watson, now knew exactly who and what she was finally settled in her mind.

It was over. The life Molly had once lived was gone and a new one loomed before her…one possibly without John.

She ran.

The carpeted stairs flew past, as her feet pounded against the floor. Reaching the front door, her heavy shoulder bag felt like an unnecessary hindrance, so she flung it off her body, before wrenching open the exit and launching herself onto the dark streets. The air was damp and cold, but Molly barely felt the light drizzle colliding with her skin. She had no journey planned, or destination decided and her brain was an absolute shambles, as emotion after emotion pummelled her fragile senses. Fear was the first, followed closely by grief, before anger came into the fray.

Why was all of this happening to _her_? What had _she_ done to incur the wrath of whoever dealt such fates? All Molly wanted, all she had _ever_ asked for was to remain in the shadows, under the radar, out of the spotlight. She didn't want money, fame, or even the standard husband and kids. Molly just wanted peace and quiet and…

Anything but _this_! It was torture, to feel so close to living a normal life, only for it to be snatched away by the cruellest means imaginable. She had managed to actually make friends, but they would be a part of her life no longer. What would they want with someone like her?

Mingling with the emotion was the image of John's face, as she'd entered the flat. Her time in the building only lasted a matter of seconds, but that was all she needed to have his expression imprinted on her brain, as it'd held the greatest importance. Sometimes, he could be so expressive and open, but, at other times, his face was unreadable and this had been very much a case of the latter.

The fear had taken over, then and she retreated, before the rejection could come. She'd spare him the hassle, by removing herself from the situation. John Watson would have to babysit and worry about Molly no longer.

When her lungs started to feel as though they were on fire, the pathologist was forced to slow her pace to a fast walk. Her skin was soaked, as was her coat and the sheer volume of the noisy city she inhabited assaulted her ears; people talking, vehicles splashing through puddles and, through it all, the ceaseless pounding of her head. She wanted to stop right there, in the middle of the pavement and cover her ears, to cease all sound.

Her coat pocket began vibrating and she halted, before yanking out the ringing phone, to see John's name emblazoned across the screen. Out of sheer reflex, she hit the decline button and was too bewildered by the situation to acknowledge the action. Molly continued walking and the phone started ringing a second time. On this occasion, she let it go through to voicemail, unable to bear the sound of the doctor's voice. She couldn't speak to him yet, everything was still too raw.

The young woman kept moving, as the drizzle slowly dried and, when she finally chose to observe her surroundings, Molly found herself a long way from Baker Street. In fact, a quick look at the nearest sign told her she was actually stood on Liverpool Road. That was, at the very least, an hour's walk from 221B and she glanced at her watch; almost quarter to nine.

The phone, still clutched tightly in her right hand, vibrated yet again and she realised she had missed three more of John's calls, as well as one from Sherlock. Was that really the detective showing concern, or had the doctor tried a different number, with the hopes of getting a response? Along with the missed calls, was a text. That was safe, she reasoned, as there was no requirement to speak.

**Molly, where are you?**

As if the pathologist's emotional turmoil wasn't severe enough, remorse added itself into the mixture. Could it really be that he was worried? Of course he was, she reminded herself, it was John. It was in his nature to care and worry about everyone else.

**Please. Just a response. Anything to let me know you're okay.**

The second text forced her to lean against a wall. Did he ever realise the effect he could have on a person? It was ridiculous to be so good to people who'd done little to deserve it. She couldn't leave him hanging, though, even if she wasn't able to have an actual conversation. It wasn't fair to treat him that way.

**I'm okay.**

Well, that was a blatant lie, but John would know what she meant.

**Where are you?**

A war began in Molly's brain. On the one hand, she wanted nothing more than to be left alone. But, on the other, she longed for the comfort and understanding John offered. She'd always felt better, after having his shoulder to cry on-literally, on a couple of occasions. Time was passing, as she debated the options and the pause was great enough for him to send another text, before receiving any reply.

**Can I at least call?**

Oh, God! What was she supposed to do? Molly didn't want him to leave her, but the only way to avoid that outcome was to stay away from him. What kind of fucking sense did _that_ make? And she wasn't even his to be left. Patience wasn't proving to be John's strong point, as her phone began ringing yet again. He was trying to kill her, surely? Her small frame felt inadequate to contain everything going on inside it.

Eventually, the distraught woman could bear it no longer and pressed the answer button.

"Hello? Molly?"

The moment she heard the sheer relief in his voice, the damn broke and tears fell. Her left side slid down the wall, until she was crouched on the wet ground and pressed her free palm to her eyes, trying to stem the flow. How she must have looked to a passerby, Molly daren't imagine and a loud sob was the only sound provided, to prove to John that she was present and listening.

"Christ," he cursed under his breath. "Look, where are you? I'm coming to meet you."

"N-no-" she tried to argue, but John cut her off.

"I'm coming, whether you like it or not," he asserted, in an authoritative tone. "Now, _where are you_?"

Satan surely couldn't be far, because Molly felt certain she was in Hell.

"Don't make me call Lestrade," the doctor threatened.

Her running was finished. It was time to face the music. Between the sobs, she eventually stammered out her location and he ordered her to remain exactly where she was, before hanging up. There was little chance to disobey, because the pathologist didn't think she'd be able to move anywhere unaided.

Instead, Molly stayed in her crouched position, but shifted further into the nearby shadows, to avoid the attention of strangers. There would be quite a wait, but she didn't care. It wasn't as though she was particularly eager to have the dreaded conversation with him. On the phone, Molly had heard nothing but relief, but, now that he was assured of her safety, would the anger be allowed to surface? A dozen different scenarios played out in the pathologists mind, but none had a positive outcome and she became so lost in her musings, that she failed to hear the approaching footsteps, until a pair of dark brown shoes halted on the pavement before her.

A moment later, Miss Hooper was no longer the only person crouched on the dark, damp street. Brown eyes were incapable of meeting the teal, even at level height, forcing Molly to stare intently at the footwear. A pair of hands interlaced their fingers and, in the amber streetlight, she could see the fine, pale hairs lining the knuckles. A soft call of Molly's name made her eyelids flutter, and she took a deep breath. If John was angry, he hid it well.

"As much as I love sitting on a wet pavement," he remarked, gently. "The wall over there looks a lot comfier."

The fingers separated and one of the palms was offered to the brunette, who eyed it like a snake poised to strike. If she took it, this moment would be over and stepping into an uncertain future was a terrifying prospect. So many variables awaited and who was to say that this wasn't the beginning of the end?

John wasn't going anywhere for the moment, though, a point his unwavering hand proved. Despite the gentle tone, there would be no arguing with the former soldier. Molly's left hand tentatively escaped the confines of the crook of her elbow and trembled, as it neared its destination. Sliding into the open palm, John's fingers encircled hers and she was carefully, but surely lifted to her feet.

All energy had seeped out of Molly's limbs and she felt an arm slip around her waist, before being carefully led over to a low wall several feet away. It was wet, but her coat was just long enough to adequately protect, as she perched on the low stone edifice. Having released his hold on his companion, John sat on her left and put his hands in his pockets, to warm them up.

For a while, the pair just sat in silence, letting the rest of the world pass by. Neither seemed to know what to say to the other and the shimmering reflections of streetlights on the wet pavement held immeasurable fascination for the pathologist. Try as she might, Molly couldn't seem to will a massive hole to open up in the ground.

"I didn't read it," John suddenly declared, his voice quiet.

In surprise, Molly's gaze lifted to the doctor's face.

"The file on the laptop," he continued. "As soon as I got to the picture of you, I stopped."

She wasn't sure how to respond to that, so settled for a nod. Her heart was racing.

"As for earlier in the lab…I can't take back what Sherlock said." John faced Molly, before finishing the sentence. "And you don't have to explain a thing."

The relief was just waiting to explode, but she kept it reigned in, because there was no telling what might come next.

"But," he continued, his eyes glowing with compassion. "You don't have to keep running, either."

The tears ran down her cheeks and she found it hard to hold his gaze. John Watson was remaining true to form, being unbearably _lovely_ and it was so hard to accept the kindness, as her paranoia was working overtime. She wanted him to shout, rant and rave, reprimanding her for the secrecy and lies, because it was what she deserved.

Clumsily brushing away the tears, she choked out a response. "Why?" she asked.

"Why, what?"

She tried to extend her question, but it was hard, when that one word covered so many different queries. Why should she stop running? Why was he so nice? Why was he wasting his energy on her? Why…just _why_?

She tried to settle her mind, so that the words could be coherent. In the end, one enquiry plagued her mind more than any others. "Why are-" Sniff. "Why are you-" Another sniff. "So _nice_?"

That question actually elicited a chuckle from the man beside her and his torso shifted, so that it was angled towards hers. "Nice? Molly, I'm just being a normal human being."

Molly's eyes returned to the ground and she started shaking her head, but John refused to let her sink back into despair.

"You've been unlucky enough to see the very worst of humanity," he said. "But you need to know that people like Thomas are _not_ the norm. You'd realise that, if you kept still long enough to find out."

That was easier said than done, especially when the worst of humanity insisted on returning again and again.

"You're not going to see him again," John said. "I promise."

"Don't," Molly demanded, her eyes leaking faucets that refused to dry up. It was entirely John's fault, this time. He couldn't make promises to her like that, it wasn't fair and, even if he could, Molly wasn't entirely fond of _promises_.

"Don't what?" John looked confused.

"Urgh," she sighed, still trying to halt the tears. "Don't _that_! Don't promise. Anything but promises."

"Why?"

"Because…" Molly looked at John, at the puzzled arrangement of his features, of the face that had always offered security, that had never let her down…so far. He didn't understand; how could he? She could always make him, though. He now knew her very worst secret, after all, so what was another little titbit of information? "Because _he_ made promises," she continued, looking away. "And he broke every single one."

Molly's head bowed and she stared at her trembling fingers, as they started fiddling with the zip of her coat. A request was made for her to look up, but she refused, shaking her head again. The air beside her stirred and the doctor's face appeared, as he crouched down before the young woman. Her fidgeting was halted by his hands, as they covered hers.

"Molly," he began in a voice so soft, yet containing as much power as a scream. "I'm not Thomas and, when I say you won't see him again, I mean it. If I have to be at your side twenty four hours a day, _every_ single day, just to keep him at bay, I will."

"But, he…" A sob interrupted her sentence. "He could hurt you."

"He can try," John replied. "But he'll regret it."

Molly didn't look convinced and his hands squeezed hers gently. "I've dealt with a criminal mastermind. You think I can't take on a coward like _him_? That's what Thomas Jackson is, Molly, a coward. Remember that."

"So am I," she murmured.

"Because you're scared? Yet, you're still here, aren't you? You rebuilt your life, Molly. Doesn't seem that cowardly to me."

Molly had no reply and kept gazing at the fingers still curled around hers. Even after everything that had happened-and was _still_ happening-skin on skin contact with John didn't send the jolt of alarm through her that it would have anyone else. His hands were so warm against her freezing digits and she only just realised how low the temperature was. A chill shot through her body and she shivered.

"It's freezing," John observed. "You're soaked and I'd be neglecting my duties as a doctor, if I didn't get you somewhere warm and dry." He straightened, but didn't release her hands. "Are you ready?"

Molly stayed where she was for a moment, chewing the inside of her cheek and, when the doctor gently tugged, she followed, allowing him to pull her to her feet. The pathologist's left hand was released, allowing her to brush away yet more tears, as well as the hair that had fallen from its ponytail, but a reassuring grip remained on her right and John seemed in no hurry to break contact.

Molly hadn't held anyone's hand since childhood and she found it difficult to describe. It was supportive, encouraging and a symbol of safety, yet also an open door to something very new and, despite the ease she felt around him, rather scary. She knew what it could symbolise, holding the hand of another, but couldn't bring herself to let go. John hadn't left. He hadn't turned her away or been angry with her for holding such a huge secret and, when he said he hadn't read the file about her, she knew it was true. He was respecting her privacy and, if she ever got the courage to one day tell John everything, he was happy to wait. As always, John asked for nothing more from Molly than she was willing to give.

Their hands remained joined, until the black cab he flagged down stopped and they had to climb inside. During the journey home, Molly was given time to reflect on how the evening had turned out and couldn't believe the difference between the true outcome and her expectations. In all honesty, though, the pathologist's mind had been too disarrayed to really set any and fear had made up the rest. Despite the doctor's words, she couldn't detect any of the bravery he claimed to see in her and wondered if she ever would. She'd have to stop bloody crying, first. If humans were seventy percent water, she must have been down to about ten percent by now.

It was a good job she'd been out in the rain, then.

221 Baker Street arrived and the pair exited the cab. A sense of déjà vu struck Molly, remembering the night she first came to stay at Baker Street and she longed for the days when she could gaze upon the black wooden door, without feeling like utter shit. John opened the door with his key, before ushering her in and she wondered if Sherlock would still be inside. She didn't think he had deliberately shown John the file he had on her, as the detective had assured he wouldn't say anything, but, as John said, there was no erasing the revelation from earlier. Even though things had turned out alright (she hoped), there was still a hint of irritation inside at his carelessness. She knew Sherlock wasn't wired the same way as most, but a person as observant as he _must_ have understood her reasons for keeping things so secretive. There was no use holding a grudge, though, she conceded. What good was it going to do in the long run?

The flat was dark when they entered, signalling that the detective was either asleep (unlikely) or out. The main light was switched on and felt harsh against Molly's tired eyes, but she saw that her bag had been removed from the hallway, as it was now resting on the coffee table.

Following doctor's orders, she retrieved some comfy, dry clothing from her suitcase and went into the bathroom to change. A shower, or even a bath, had been considered, but, when it came down to it, Molly was simply too knackered to bother. A sofa and hot beverage awaited in the lounge, which she intended to make full use of as soon as possible. The ponytail was pulled out and she carefully removed the numerous tangles in her damp hair, before letting it hang loosely over her shoulders to dry.

Upon exiting the bathroom, she saw that the main light had been extinguished, to be replaced by several lamps and the beginnings of a fire in the fireplace. Fiddling with the cuffs of her woollen cardigan, the pathologist walked over to the sofa and curled up on the right seat, leaving plenty of space for John, should he wish to join.

A large mug of coffee was handed to her, which she eagerly accepted. He occupied the space beside her and they spent a few long minutes drinking in silence. Although a little awkward (for her, at least), it wasn't loaded with anywhere near as much dread as before and she was able to enjoy the bitter taste of the hot drink, as it slid down her throat. Her eyes absently wandered about the room, until they settled on an object that sent her stomach somersaulting. The laptop was still in its original position, atop the kitchen table, although the screen was now black. The moment she eyed the device, a strange kind of nausea rose in her abdomen, but she couldn't look away. It was all there, every detail of her past, it seemed and anyone who cared to switch it on could discover the truth. One of the many fears plaguing her fraught senses returned.

John glanced over at the pathologist, before following the direction of her gaze, understanding immediately what had caught her attention. His eyes returned to the woman beside him.

"Molly-"

"If he's caught," she interjected, wanting to voice her thoughts, whilst she felt able to do so. "Will I have to give a statement?"

It was clear she wouldn't like the answer, given John's reluctance to reply. "Probably," he said, looking into his cup.

"Will the stuff on there about me send him to prison?"

"Definitely, if Sherlock and I have anything to do with it."

"Can that file be given to Dimmock or Lestrade, or whoever's in charge of the case?"

John seemed a little surprised by the question, aware of the file's importance and what revealing the information contained would mean for the young woman.

"Are you sure?" he asked, a frown of concern on his face.

"Sherlock said that, at some point, I'd have to talk about it," she said.

"Not necessarily."

"No, he's right," she insisted. "But…I don't want…to _talk_ about it, so, if I can just give them that-" she pointed to the laptop. "And just sign something to confirm it's all true, then…" she took a deep breath. "…I'll do it."

John gave a brief nod, as his eyes roamed her face, almost in assessment. Eventually, a small smile curved the corners of his lips.

"Said you weren't a coward," he remarked, taking another sip of coffee.

Molly blushed and her eyes fell down to her own cup. She still felt like one, with the way her heart was going ten to the dozen, but she knew that handing her file over to the police was the right thing to do. It wasn't just about _her_ , anymore. Once upon a time, that was the case, but no more. Three others had died, maybe not by the hand of her rapist, but he was certainly involved, somehow and, if her past could help lock him behind bars, she'd use it, turn it into a weapon against _him_ , rather than the object of fear it had always been for _her._

"You can read it, if you want."

Molly's shock at the words that had just left her mouth matched her companion's. What the Hell was she doing? Hadn't that been the very reason she legged it form the flat to begin with?

"It's alright, Molly," John said, shaking his head gently.

"Everyone else on the case is going to read it," she offered. "It's only fair you know, as well."

John leaned forward to place his cup down on the coffee table, before reclining once more, this time facing Molly. "I don't want to hear about your past, because you think it's _fair_ ," he asserted and, for a moment, the pathologist thought he was angry with her. "I want to hear about it from _you_ , because you are _ready_ to talk about it. Until then, I'm not even so much as glancing at that file."

"But…why?" She couldn't understand his reasoning. What if she was never ready?

"Because it's none of my business," he explained. "Whatever is on that file makes no difference to the person you are now. To me, you are Molly Hooper, Specialist Registrar at St Bartholomew's Hospital. If I see that file before you're ready, you won't let me see you that way. All you'll let me see is Mary Morstan, a victim and you've come so much further than that."

It was always surprising just how well John Watson could read people. For all his observational brilliance, Sherlock had trouble _understanding_ the emotional aspects of humanity and, in that regard, was obscured by his partner's skill. Molly knew what the doctor meant, that his knowledge of her past would drastically alter their friendship, because, he was right, Molly _wasn't_ ready for him to know just yet. One day, perhaps when all of this was far behind her, she would be and could sit John down to explain everything. But, until then, until Molly felt comfortable enough to truly be herself, she would wait.

For the first time, the pathologist began to wonder if, maybe, just maybe, the thing she had always envied Sherlock for the most, was actually something she possessed, too. Molly had always wished to experience the luck the detective had in finding a friend like John, but now realised that she had. It was almost laughable how blind she'd been. John was _her_ friend, too and the companionship he'd provided was incomparable.

As her eyes roamed the face of the man beside her, she felt a reminder of the sensations she'd experienced in the morgue, earlier that day. It was the unusual feeling that had left her so confused and was met with alarm, because the young woman was still too mentally scarred to accept that sort of thing, without the pain and terror associated with it.

Molly had been too afraid to name the sensation, when it first surfaced at the Christmas party and tried to ignore it ever since, but this tumultuous evening had left her emotions bare. How to understand it, though? How could a person, so damaged by her past, attempt the very thing that had always been the source of her nightmares? Where did she even _start_? Perhaps a session with Ella Thompson was in order.

It made Molly's stomach spin and she was unable to look John in the eye any longer. She hoped the thoughts running through her mind weren't projected on her face and the very thought of that sent her pulse soaring. The pathologist felt beyond exhausted, with her mind in completely the wrong place to dwell on those thoughts, so she reckoned it was best to empty her brain, as much as possible.

Gazing down at the remnants of her drink, Molly took a couple of subtle deep breaths, trying to calm her feverish mind. She could feel her face growing hot and started rubbing her eyes, as the symptoms of fatigue were making themselves known.

"You alright?" John asked, placing a hand between her shoulder blades.

"Yeah," she assured him, rubbing a hand over her face. "Just overtired, I think."

"Well, tonight, I think you deserve to sleep in a proper bed." John levered himself to his feet.

"But…what about you?" she asked.

"I was thinking of Sherlock's, actually," John chuckled, holding out his hand for her once again.

Molly laughed and easily accepted the proffered limb. "Won't he mind?" she wondered, her eyes glancing over at the hallway, which lead to the detective's bedroom.

"He won't be using it tonight, trust me," John insisted, pulling the pathologist upright. "Besides, it wouldn't be the first time I've found him asleep on the sofa, in the morning."

Molly bit her bottom lip, considering the offer. The thought of a proper bed was tempting, but she couldn't claim to know Sherlock anywhere near close enough to feel comfortable with the idea of stealing his bed.

"If you don't want _his_ bed, then use mine. I'll sleep down here tonight."

"I can't kick you out of your room," she said.

"You're not," he replied. "I'm offering. Actually, I'm insisting. Consider it another one of my doctor's orders."

"You're a very bossy doctor," she remarked, surprised at the opportunity to smile. Molly certainly hadn't expected to do _that_ this evening.

"I prefer to think of it as looking out for your best interests," John argued, raising an eyebrow, as if in challenge.

Molly bit her lip once more, before taking a last deep breath. "Alright," she relented, her shoulder sagging after the efforts of the day. "Thank you."

"You are more than welcome," John declared.

Molly reached forward and he accepted the hug, before his hand began moving up and down her back comfortingly. She tightened her hold briefly, willing the true depth of her gratitude into the embrace. If only there was someone to show him the kindness her bestowed upon others. In that moment, she wished more than anything to be that very person, but knew it would be a very long time, before she possessed the physical and mental strength required to be the woman he believed she could be.

"You'll be fine, Molly," John whispered.

Molly nodded, desperate to believe and, for once, there was just a glimmer of hope that this promise would remain unbroken.


	24. 24

** Chapter Twenty Four **

Sunlight does funny things to Brits. With just the briefest glimpse of that dazzling yellow orb, it's a guarantee that someone, even during the darkest depths of winter, will parade the streets in shorts and flip flops. The nation couldn't really be blamed for such behaviour, as they had to make the most of the star's rare appearances in the sky, but it certainly took bravery to endure the harsh weather in such a fashion.

Molly Hooper was content to enjoy the sun's rays within the confines of a thick coat and scarf, as she strolled along the London streets, towards St Bartholomew's Hospital. A day had passed, since her last attendance and it was bizarre how everything could feel so different, yet seem exactly the same.

For so long, Molly had endured each day, bearing the weight of a terrible secret. Until now, she had never realised just how much effort had been required to do so and, as cliché as it might sound, she could actually feel the reduction in weight, as relief fuelled each step. Trepidation lay within the relief, though and there was an apprehensive light-headedness turning about her brain. A disciple of angst, it was hard for the pathologist to simply accept the good fortune that lay before her and she had spent all of the previous day searching for the things that would go wrong.

It had taken Molly almost until the afternoon to be able to relax around John, following the previous night's revelations. In the end, he'd had to physically hold her still and threaten to fiddle a prescription for Xanax, if she didn't, in his words, "just bloody chill!" After that, she was able to enjoy a, somewhat, peaceful day, followed by an unsettled night of sleep. It was expected that her slumber would be disrupted for the foreseeable future, given everything that had happened in such a short space of time. She still hadn't fully reconciled with the latest assault and the stress of everything else did nothing to help.

Entering the hospital, Molly wondered what sights might greet her that day. No more marked bodies had entered the morgue, since the assault and, if Sherlock was correct (probably not an _if_ , given who Sherlock was), then that left everyone wondering what the killer's next move might be. For his part, she had heard mutterings from the detective, as he tried to figure out the connection between the unknown killer and Thomas Jackson. There had to be one, as Sherlock Holmes didn't believe in coincidence. Neither did Molly, if she was honest.

**0**

Less than an hour into her shift, Molly was summoned to the morgue, where she found two people waiting. Three, if you counted the body lying on the table, covered in a white sheet. Her pulse quickened, as she guessed it would be another "marked" corpse and dreaded to think what the latest message might be. Of the two living, stood either side of the table, she recognised one: Greg Lestrade. The second was a woman, with dark skin and a mane of tight, caramel curls framing her face. From the looks of it, she was affiliated with Lestrade and a severe, business-like expression painted her pretty features. Molly could only hope she was more amiable than DI Dimmock's partner had proven to be.

"Morning, Molly," Greg greeted, as the pathologist approached.

He knew. Molly could see it in those brown eyes, as they settled on her face. He tried his best not to show the pity he felt for the woman before him, but she saw it, hidden beneath the friendly smile. Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade had been shown the file on Molly and it would forever change the man's perception of her. It only proved the validity of John's reasoning for not wishing to see it. There was no such display from the woman beside Greg, thankfully, as her face was an inscrutable mask, but Molly had to assume she was aware of the situation, too.

"This is Sally Donovan," Lestrade explained, gesturing to the unknown woman, who gave a tight smile and small nod to the pathologist. "And we've got another one, I'm afraid."

"Okay," Molly said, moving closer to the end of the table, where the victim's head lay. "Let's take a look, shall we?"

Pulling back the sheet, the trio was confronted with the pale body of a young man. Molly didn't pull the sheet any further down than his navel, thinking there would be little need to display his manhood. He may be dead, but that was no excuse for any further loss of dignity or respect. Lestrade had other ideas and urged her to remove the sheet completely. Brow creased with intrigue, Molly complied and her eyes widened at the sight before her.

From head to navel, the young man seemed completely normal and unblemished, with no wounds or signs of trauma. However, just below the belly button, was a large arrow scored into the flesh, pointing to the left, with three letters sitting atop it.

_**P.T.O** _

"Please turn over?" Molly guessed, to which both detectives nodded.

Before following the instructions, the pathologist's eyes fell onto the legs, where something even more bizarre was displayed. On each leg, starting at the hip and following all the way down to the big toe, was a series of markings that, on closer inspection, turned out to be musical notes. This was certainly a development. What was it supposed to mean?

Molly's eyes returned to Lestrade.

"Search me," he shrugged. "Never was a musician."

"What do we have?"

The trio looked up, their eyes following the sound of a door hinge, as two more people entered the morgue. Sherlock strode into the room with his usual morbid gusto, trailed closely by John. Beside Greg, Molly felt the body language of detective Donovan stiffen and one look at the woman's face told the pathologist all she needed to know of her opinion on the consulting detective.

"Hello, Freak," Donovan said, eyeing Sherlock coldly.

Molly glanced over at John, who simply shrugged and rolled his eyes. Sherlock had been making friends again, it seemed.

Sherlock ignored the insult and his attention immediately fixed on the corpse.

"Found him in the early hours of this morning," Lestrade began. "He was lying naked by the entrance of a pub, called the Nag's Head, covered in old blankets. Mistaken for a tramp, at first."

Sherlock had whipped out his pocket magnifying glass and was looking the body up and down. Molly took a step back, to allow the amateur detective access and found that John was directly opposite. Their eyes met and he raised an eyebrow, silently asking if she was alright. She gave an imperceptible nod and it surprised the young woman to realise that was the truth. She wasn't anywhere near as affected by the latest death as she'd expected. Perhaps the shock would set in later. Before she could dwell any further, a sound came from the consulting detective that Molly had never expected to hear. He was humming.

"Sherlock?" John called, clearly as baffled by the unexpected behaviour as everyone else. "What are you doing?"

"Humming," Sherlock replied, giving the doctor a look that reproached him for being dense. "Those notes on the legs, they play out a tune, but it's not one I recognise. Certainly not classical, so must be a modern piece."

"Think it's important?" Lestrade queried.

"Well, if not, the killer must have had an awful lot of spare time," Sherlock answered.

"How's it go, again?" Greg requested. "One of us might recognise it."

Sherlock's eyes flitted from person to person and Molly could sense his awkwardness. It was evident he'd rather not do as the detective asked and the first time she had seen the aloof man look so unsure of himself. It had also clearly occurred to Sherlock that he had little choice not to, as the tune was unknown to him and he had no way of discovering it alone. It was rather interesting to watch, actually; she'd never thought of him as shy, before. For all the respect and admiration Molly held for his skill, it was nice, every once in a while, to see the smugness wiped off his long face.

"Don't be shy, Sherlock," John encouraged. "Let's hear it."

Oh, John was going to pay later! Molly wasn't sure whether she wanted to bear witness to that or not. Taking a deep breath, Sherlock braced himself, before humming out the tune created by the notes on the dead man's legs. Three pairs of ears listened intently, hoping to recognise the melody.

"Is that…" Lestrade cut himself off, listening again to be certain. "Don't Fear the Reaper?"

"Might be," John said, looking over at Sherlock, as though ready to ask for a repeat performance.

The consulting detective was a step ahead of his flatmate, as he'd whipped out his phone and started typing. A minute or two later, the device was held aloft, as the first notes of a song started echoing from the speakers. It was a song most would recognise immediately. Sherlock listened intently, a faraway look in his eye and, just before the first verse began, the music was stopped.

"Is that it?" John asked, to which Sherlock nodded.

"Blue Öyster Cult," Lestrade commented. "Thought so." He looked over at the man in the scarf opposite. "You've really never heard it?"

"Don't listen to modern music," the consulting detective declared, defensively. "Not really my thing."

"Modern? It came out in the seventies!"

"Considering the age of the planet and the length of time music has been played upon it, I would say a mere forty years ago is rather recent, wouldn't you?"

 _Can't argue with that logic_ , Molly chuckled to herself, although it was obvious the unofficial detective was annoyed at his display of ignorance. Something to store in the Mind Palace, perhaps?

"The arrow has some lettering above it," Sherlock continued, having had enough of the previous conversation. "P.T.O-Please Turn Over."

He made a flipping motion with his hands and, as the only one wearing gloves, Molly set about turning the body over, to reveal the man's back. It required effort, although not too much, as the victim was mercifully slender. Once the chest connected with the steel table, the pathologist stepped back again and was bewildered by what she saw. Lined up to the very centre of the spine, a square shape was carved into the skin and two words glared defiantly upwards at the quintet.

_**Open** _

_**Me** _

Molly felt the goosebumps rising on her flesh, as she realised what she would be required to do. At first, everyone had assumed the four lines joined together in a square were just marked into the skin, but that short message alluded to a far more disturbing reality. Upon closer inspection, it appeared that fine stitching ran along the lines, finishing at the top left hand corner. It hadn't been secured, but the end of the thread had been left loose, allowing easy removal.

The pathologist eyed each of her companions, checking they were all aware of what she saw.

"What are you waiting for, Molly?" Sherlock asked, his voice low and quiet. She knew that tone of voice; it meant he was thoroughly intrigued.

Heading over to the counter, where the medical instruments were stored, she retrieved a scalpel and forceps, before returning to the table. She set about removing the stitches, being as careful as possible, so that none of the skin was unnecessarily damaged. Christ knew what might be underneath.

It was slow and painstaking, but, eventually all the stitches were gone and she looked up at her companions once more.

"This is probably going to be a bit…nasty," she said, apologetically, as a warning to anyone who might be squeamish.

Pushing her finger carefully into the corner of the square, Molly realised that the carvings went very deep and she wondered if peeling the skin away might reveal muscle or even bone. The sound accompanying the reveal wasn't at all pleasant and, out of the corner of her eye, she could see several of the faces grimace in disgust. In fact, the only person, besides herself, who didn't wince, was Sherlock.

Did anyone really expect anything else?

The entire slab of skin was pulled away and rested in Molly's upturned palm. A fourth message was displayed, in some sort of ink or dye and it wasn't letters this time. Well, letters were still involved, but they weren't designed to form words. They were joined by numbers, dashes and symbols of degrees to form what Molly suspected (in her ignorant opinion) were coordinates.

_**51°31′24″N 0°09′30″W** _

She held the object aloft for everyone else to see.

"Coordinates," John said, confirming her suspicion. "But to where and what for?"

Sherlock had his phone out again and the expression on his face meant the answer was by no means good.

"Sherlock?" John prompted, not liking the look or silence of his friend.

"John," the detective began, his voice soft. "It's Baker Street,"

"What?" Lestrade demanded, looking at the screen of the phone held up for all to see.

The proof was there, alright. He'd typed a search into Google and, beneath the coordinates, in bold, black lettering, along with a charming picture of a posh looking block of flats, was **Baker Street**. Molly felt the panic bubbling away in her stomach and she instantly clasped her hands together. Oh, that wasn't good. That wasn't good, at all! But, it wasn't for 221, she realised, as her eyes scanned the image again. According to Google, the coordinates were for _219_. Then again, that could reference the entire street for all she knew. Her thoughts instantly flew to Mrs Hudson, who was all alone in the building, completely unaware.

Sherlock's icy blue eyes connected with the doctor's. "We're leaving."

He turned and started walking, before speaking over his shoulder to those left behind. "Lestrade, keep an eye on Molly. I'll contact you when we arrive."

"Not bloody likely," Lestrade cried, indignantly. "I'm going to Baker Street and calling for backup."

Sherlock actually _rolled his eyes_ at the DI for such a suggestion, but didn't argue. He knew it was the standard routine and, if he wanted a part of it, he'd have to follow the rules…as well as Sherlock could _follow_ any rules.

"You can get a lift there in the car," Greg offered.

"No," Sherlock declined. "I'll follow behind."

"Wait," John protested, his eyes flying back and forth between the three leaving and the woman stood by the steel table. "We can't just leave…"

Sherlock halted, before his torso twisted, angled in the direction of the other four. "According to that body, an entire block of flats could be in danger-a street, even. She's safe where she is for now, so stop wasting time and get moving."

John hesitated, before his eyes connected with Molly's briefly. Although quick and completely unexplained, she knew what that look meant and replied with a single nod. She'd be okay and he'd be back very soon. The doctor then followed the three detectives out of the morgue, leaving her alone with the body.

"Guess it's just us," she remarked, looking at the pale, lifeless form beside her, hoping some forced humour might make her feel a little better.

It didn't.

**0**

The post mortem was almost completed and lunch time beckoned, but Molly couldn't find the desire to eat. Worry was too busy gorging on her nerves. There had been no word, so far and almost three hours had passed. Was everyone okay? Should she try contacting one of them to find out?

She fidgeted nervously in the queue to buy a coffee, one hand clasping the phone in her lab coat pocket. All she needed was a text, to know nothing bad had happened, to know that John _would_ be back soon.

In need of caffeine, she picked the strongest coffee available and was about to pay, when her pocket began vibrating. In the rush to retrieve her phone, the beverage was almost spilt all over the cashier and Molly got tongue tied, amidst her profuse apologies, before deciding to abandon the transaction altogether. The cashier threw the pathologist a dirty look, but she didn't care. All that mattered was answering the call.

"Hello?" she said, a little breathless from panic.

"Molly? You alright?"

John's voice sent an instant wave of calm and she felt a little silly for her flustered behaviour a moment ago.

"Are you?" she asked, ignoring his question, as it was thoroughly unimportant.

"Yeah, I'm fine," he replied and, from the background noise, she could tell he was outside. "You still at work? I'm about to arrive."

"Yeah, I'll be in the lab," she said. "What happened?"

"I'll explain when I see you."

That sounded cryptic. Molly didn't like cryptic things. She liked plain, simple and easy to understand things. She tried to calm herself by focusing on the fact that John was safe, but it did little to help. Obviously, something had happened and she wasn't looking forward to discovering what.

The pair met in the hallway leading to the laboratory and her eyes were roaming the doctor's body, assessing him for any injuries he might be trying to conceal from her. For all intents and purposes, he looked just as he had before, although there were lines of worry decorating his face. Those just above his brow deepened, when he frowned, pointing to the right lapel of her coat.

"What happened to you?"

"Hmm?" she looked down, to where he pointed, discovering a small, brown stain had ruined the crisp white of the coat. She dismissed it with a wave of her hand. "Oh, um…it's nothing. Just coffee."

They entered the room together. Although she still had an autopsy to finish, Molly was desperate to know what had happened and didn't think chatting in front of a mangled corpse would be particularly enjoyable.

"You're sure you're alright?" she asked, still eyeing John, as they stopped by the nearest table.

"Stop worrying," he said, holding his hands out. "I'm fine. There was nothing there, when we arrived. In fact, we spent God-knows-how-long walking up and down Baker Street, trying to find _something_ that would connect with this case. It was ridiculous!" He let out a quiet bark of frustrated laughter. "We got there and everyone was expecting the worst. I legged it into the flat, shouting Mrs Hudson's name and found her in front of the telly… _napping_."

Molly's brows rose. He sounded almost put out. At least it wasn't _bad_ news.

"It was almost an hour, before I considered giving up," he continued. "But, then Sherlock had a look at the image on his phone again and decided to pay the receptionist in the block of flats at 219 a visit. Turns out something was left for him."

Molly's eyes widened with intrigue.

"It was a box, containing a phone, with a message already loaded onto voicemail. It didn't really provide a lot, besides playing that Reaper song and a distorted voice taunting him for not solving the case, yet, saying the answer was right under his nose."

Molly let out a sigh. "At least no one was hurt."

"True," John agreed. "It's seriously pissing him off, though. After hearing the message, Sherlock just chucked the phone at me and stormed off. We need a clue soon, or the man's going to have a nervous breakdown."

The man in question chose that moment to burst into the lab and Molly could see the storm clouds gathering on his features. Physically, Sherlock had never been the most approachable person, with his angular features and distant attitude. However, in a temper, the detective looked terrifying, with the shadows deepening around his eyes and lips set in a thin line.

This was a time to only speak to Mr Holmes if it was absolutely necessary. Molly silently encouraged John to accompany his friend, with a tip of her head and he did so. She was planning to head back down to the morgue, when she saw a familiar figure through the glass panel of the double doors. She groaned, inwardly, certain that an unpleasant confrontation was about to happen.

Joseph entered the lab and headed straight for Molly, after spying the other two men in the lab. Seeing Sherlock immediately shifted her colleague's posture and she noticed him straighten up, in preparation for whatever verbal battle may be about to commence.

"You're in early," she remarked, willing to do whatever was necessary to keep Joseph's attention off the detective.

"Had some things to get on with," he explained, leaning against the table beside her, his hands resting in his pockets. "Saw the body in the morgue. Part of your case, I assume."

"Yeah," she said. "I'm about to go and finish up there."

Joseph's eyes roamed towards where Sherlock was setting up some equipment, on the other side of the room. "His Majesty summoned you, did he?" he asked, the volume of his voice increasing.

"No," she negated. "He's just got here, actually." She lowered her voice, before uttering the next part. "And he's having some trouble with this case, so leave it, okay?"

A spark of glee lit up Joseph's features, which Molly both expected, yet still found distasteful.

"Really?" he murmured, his eyes flitting over to the surly detective and his voice rose yet again. "Having trouble, is he? The great Sherlock Holmes finally got a case he can't solve.

She threw a warning glare at her colleague, but he chose to ignore it.

"How sad to see the smugness wiped off that face. Is it a case too far, for everyone's favourite know-it-all?"

"Joseph," she hissed, trying to claim his attention once again.

"Perhaps we should call Batman-the world's _other_ greatest detective-to help out-"

"Joseph!"

Molly's unexpected exclamation caught the attention of the other three and all eyes were upon her. She felt the colour rush to her cheeks, but it didn't stop her glaring. "People are _dying_ ," she reminded the insensitive man beside her. "And you aren't helping, so, stop mocking those who _are_ and get on with some bloody work!"

Joseph looked bewildered at being spoken to in such a way, by _Molly Hooper_ of all people. He realised the mark he had overstepped and decided to turn away and leave, his tail hanging between his legs. Molly watched the retreat and started chewing the inside of her cheek, suddenly realising what she had done. If he wanted to, Joseph could get her conducted for such behaviour and there was always his unrevoked threat of having Sherlock permanently removed from the hospital.

Something touched her arm and she span to see John there, a hint of pride glowing through his expression.

"I'll remember to behave myself, from now on," he quipped, which only heightened the colouring of her cheeks. "He was being a twat, he deserved it. Coffee?"

"Um…okay. Thanks."

"Just remember, it's for drinking, not wearing."

Molly frowned in confusion, until John pointed to her jacket and she remembered the stain from her previous beverage. "Oh, yeah," she chuckled lightly. "I will."

John left, meaning the pathologist's only source of company was…well, herself, really. Sherlock wasn't exactly going to start chatting about the weather, in his current state. Or _any_ state, if truth be told. Like Blue Öyster Cult, idle chit chat wasn't his thing. Looking over at the detective, she was given a side view of his tall, slender form, hunched over the table, the frustration evident on his face. What must it be like for him to be incapable of doing the one thing he truly enjoyed? It would be like her waking up one day, unable to remember how to perform a post mortem. She felt so sorry for him and wished there was something she could do to help. Unfortunately, the body downstairs had already revealed all the clues it was going to and Molly would only be hindrance, if involved in the other aspects of the investigation.

Something then came to mind, but it filled her with a sense of dread. It may well prove of some help, but she wasn't sure if they were even looking at it anymore, with the more recent developments. She couldn't very well _not_ mention it, though, just in case it proved to be of far more assistance than she realised. Would she survive his mood long enough, to actually tell him, though?

Filled with uncertainty, Molly inched forward, towards the irascible detective, poised to retreat at the first lashing of his sharp tongue.

"S-sherlock," she began, mentally slapping herself. Sherlock hated her stammering, so now was not the best time to do it.

He didn't look up, but offered a grunt, to show he was listening.

"Is finding…Thomas-" Saying the name elicited a wince form her. "-still necessary? If so, I-I don't know where _he_ is, but I used to know his family."

Sherlock stopped what he was doing and looked up at the pathologist, his eyes narrowing slightly in consideration.

"I dunno if that's going to be any help, whatsoever," she continued, feeling a little foolish for her suggestion, having now voiced it. "They might, I dunno, know where he could be or something?"

Sherlock remained silent, simply staring at her and she bit her bottom lip.

"y'know what? Never mind, it's…it's noth-"

"What's their address?" Sherlock asked.

Molly halted, her back turned to him, before looking over her shoulder to reply.

"It's in Guildford, near where I used to live," she replied.

Silence fell between the two, but Molly could see the cogs of Sherlock's brain spinning, behind his dazzling eyes. Okay, so maybe her suggestion _wasn't_ such a stupid one. She wondered what Sherlock might be thinking and the notion of spending a day inside his head was an extremely intriguing one, but also terrifying, if his behaviour was ever anything to go by.

As they stood there, John returned, carrying three cups of coffee. Having heard the return of his flatmate, Sherlock leapt to his feet.

"John, get packing," he said, turning to face the doctor.

John stood in the middle of the room, utterly baffled. "Why?"

"We're going on a little trip," the detective informed him, reaching for his coat and swinging it around, before inserting his arms.

"Where?"

"Surrey."

John's eyes turned to Molly for clarification, but all she could bring herself to do was give a quick shrug of the shoulders and a small smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, everyone. Hope you enjoyed this latest chapter. Thanks, as always, for the reviews and everyone taking the time to read this story.
> 
> See you all soon :)


	25. 25

** Chapter Twenty Five **

A trip to Guildford was the very last thing John Watson wanted. There were things that needed to be done in _London_ , but Sherlock insisted it was vital to the case and who was his blogger to argue? After all, it was John's job (sort of) to document their adventures, although, little had been written about this particular case, so far; it felt a little too personal.

What frustrated him most was the fact that Sherlock hadn't yet told him why they needed to visit the town. Normally, his flatmate couldn't wait to spout reams of information, if only to show off, so hesitation to do so was a red flag, in the doctor's opinion. What could possibly be in Surrey, which connected to their current case? He only hoped all would be revealed very soon.

Having spent all of their time together in the bustling city, John had only recently learnt that Sherlock could drive and it wasn't a shock to discover that he was very good at it, if a little loose with speed limits. With a penchant for attention to detail, Sherlock seemed to enjoy the activity and never failed to comment on the mistakes of other drivers. It amused the former soldier to see his friend performing such a normal, everyday exercise and was a refreshing reminder of the human being that resided beneath the brilliant exterior.

Leaving Molly was a source of contention, though. The pair was likely to be gone the majority of the day and John didn't like the thought of her left alone, unsupervised. So little was known about the culprit they were trying to track down, that there was no telling what he or she might attempt, if aware of the detective's absence. Luckily, Molly had a long shift at work, so there would be plenty of people around to keep an eye on her and she'd promised to text periodically throughout the day, to let him know she was alright. Maybe it was a little over the top, but, with one attack only just thwarted, he daren't imagine what _could_ occur without them around.

The journey to Guildford lasted just over an hour, but the search for the exact address added near enough half an hour on top, as their hire car didn't have sat nav to guide them. Instead, they were relying on John's map reading skills and, it was typical for their destination to be located in the tiniest little obscure street, which was a nightmare to gain access to in a car.

Eventually, they arrived at 22 Sandfield Terrace. It was a typically middle class looking estate, with red brick houses lining either side of the street and John was left, once again, wondering just what the Hell this place would have to do with the grisly murders in London.

"Where are we?" John queried, climbing out of the vehicle.

"You have the map," Sherlock replied, locking the car doors.

"No, I mean, who lives here? Why are we visiting them? What do they have to do with the case?"

"Well…"

Uncertainty rarely hit the tall, pale man and, if it did, Sherlock was always careful to disguise it, but John had known the man long enough to spot the signs.

"Out with it," John demanded.

"This is the house of Gerald and Brenda Jackson," Sherlock explained.

"And they are..?"

"Thomas Jackson's parents."

So, that explained that, then. John felt something stirring in his abdomen, which usually began whenever _he_ was mentioned. The doctor licked his lips and nodded, reminding himself that the saying about apples not falling far from their trees was a generalisation, not a steadfast rule.

"Why didn't you just say earlier? I might not have been so against the idea of coming here, if I'd known."

"But you would have wound yourself up and the drive would have been horrendous."

"No, I wouldn't," John insisted, a little indignant.

Sherlock gave him a quick once-over. "Yes, you would."

Leaving his friend with that last comment, Sherlock turned and headed for the front door of the house they had parked in front of. John took a deep breath, before following, wondering what exactly they were going to be confronted with. How was Sherlock going to explain their presence? What exactly was john supposed to say to the parents of a man who had almost destroyed his friend's life?

Sherlock rang the door bell and waited patiently, as his blogger came to his side. John was about to ask what their cover was, when a silhouette appeared in the frosted glass and the front door was opened. A face appeared in the slim opening and a chain ran at chin height from doorframe to door. The middle aged woman eyed the two strangers warily and that was when Sherlock turned on the charm.

"Good morning," he said, flashing a wide smile. "Is this the Jackson residence?"

"It is," the woman replied, her eyes flitting between the two men. "And it's afternoon, now."

Sherlock's eyes widened in mock surprise, before he lifted his left wrist and glanced at the face of his watch. "Good Lord, so it is!" he said, laughing at himself.

It was rather disconcerting how easily Sherlock could change personalities and John was sure more than a few professionals might suspect the presence of schizophrenia. Fortunately, the doctor knew (or desperately hoped) it was just good acting, from a _very_ observant individual.

"Is this a bad time?" Sherlock continued, looking as innocent and charming as a puppy.

"Um…who are you?"

"Sorry, I'm Detective Inspector Stuart," Sherlock informed her, flashing one of the many badges he had lifted from Lestrade, before gesturing to John. "And this is my partner, John. We'd like to ask a few questions, if that's alright."

The lady's face morphed into a fearful expression.

"Oh, don't worry, you're not in any trouble," the detective assured. "And we won't take up much of your time."

The woman, who John guessed to be Brenda, seemed to be considering the request and he could see she wanted to decline, but the police badge was coercing her into compliance. It often worked on civilians, as many were either too afraid to say no, or unaware of their right to actually do so. She requested to quickly ask her husband, which Sherlock allowed and, upon her return, she appeared somewhat more amiable. The door closed, followed by the sound of the chain being removed, before it opened once more to let the two men in.

They walked into a hallway, as the door was closed behind them, before being escorted into the living room. The house looked perfectly average, if excessively neat and it reminded John of the home he had grown up in, but, the moment that thought entered his brain, he rejected it. He starting to regret asking whose house they were entering, as it was warping his view of everything, from the residents, even down to the wallpaper. He tried to neutralise his thoughts, reminding himself that these were Thomas' _parents_ , not the vile pervert, himself.

In the lounge, a man levered himself up from the armchair nearest the television, eyeing the visitors in the same way his wife had. Sherlock wielded his smile again and John followed suit, but Gerald seemed less impressed. His body language wasn't hostile, but it hardly begged the pair to stay for tea, either. John found it difficult to look at the man, as there were certain features that closely resembled those of the face he'd seen on Sherlock's laptop.

 _Not Thomas,_ he reminded himself. _Not Thomas._

"So, what can we help you with?" Gerald asked, not giving the two "detectives" chance to settle. Apparently, he was taking Sherlock at his word about this visit being quick.

"As I explained to your wife," Sherlock said, still keeping up the friendly front. "We just have a few questions."

"About?" Gerald liked to get to the point.

"Your son, Thomas."

Mr Jackson bristled, the moment the name was spoken and a sharp intake of breath was heard from Brenda. John noted the clenching of the hands resting at Gerald's sides.

"What about him?" he asked, body language now turning hostile.

"We are trying to find him," Sherlock replied. "But he's proven to be rather…elusive."

"Why?" Brenda chimed in. "What's he done? You said we weren't in trouble."

" _You_ aren't," the tall detective told her. "But Thomas could be, which is why we need to find him."

"What's all this about?" she demanded. "You come in here, harassing us-"

"There has been no harassment," Sherlock maintained, remaining calm, as the mask of affability slowly slipped. "But you are acting very defensively, which is raising even more questions."

The consulting detective scrutinised the pair carefully and John could tell he was deducing Mr and Mrs Jackson. The doctor wondered what his friend might have discovered, during that moment of observation.

"We've had trouble in the past," Gerald explained, stepping forward in his wife's defence. "From people "asking questions" about Thomas. They weren't policemen, though," he said, looking down into Brenda's face and putting an arm around her shoulders, squeezing gently.

"Just tell us what's happening," he continued, his eyes returning to the two visitors. "We'll help where we can."

"Very well," Sherlock said, his observation finished. "We are in the midst of a murder inquiry, which we believe your son may be involved in."

A gasp left Brenda's lips and a scowl of disbelief furrowed Gerald's brow.

" _Murder_?" the man parroted, in utter disbelief.

Sherlock nodded. "I'm afraid so. We don't believe he is the murderer, but evidence links him to the culprit, who we are yet to identify. We need to find Thomas, in the hopes that he might lead us to the killer."

"What makes you think he's involved?" Brenda demanded. Her defensiveness was infuriating John, who had to reign in the anger simmering in his gut.

"Pictures of the victims were found planted in the home of our colleague, which he broke into."

The couple looked completely flabbergasted by the news and Brenda's hand covered her mouth. Pity cooled the fury inside John a little, as he witnessed their reactions and wondered what it must be like to have such a son.

"He broke into someone's house?" The mother seemed unable to grasp the concept.

"Yes," Sherlock confirmed. "Mary Morstan's."

John's head whipped in the direction of his flatmate. What the Hell was he doing? Why was he bringing up Molly and why use her former name?

" _Mary_?" the word was almost spat out of Brenda's mouth. "Is _she_ accusing him of this?"

"Why do you ask?" John queried, speaking for the first time. He didn't like the tone she was using, when referring to the pathologist.

"Because, she started all the trouble in the first place."

"Trouble?"

"Yes, _trouble_ ," she repeated, a sneer in her tone.

Any pity John had felt was quickly disappearing.

"The things we've gone through, because of the accusations she threw at him; it's been Hell. We've been close to moving twice! All because of what she accused him of before. We thought, when she left, that it might all settle down, but here you are, years later, asking questions…"

"Mary didn't accuse him," John explained quickly, jumping to the absent woman's defence. "We were there when it happened. In fact, were it not for us, things would have been a _lot_ worse."

"Should you two even be questioning us, if she's your colleague?" Brenda asked, folding her arms. "She's clearly made you swallow her lies about Thomas, making this whole exercise biased."

" _Lies_?" John couldn't believe what he was hearing. Molly had endured over a year of therapy, trying to come to terms with what had happened to her and they wanted to accuse her of making it up?

"She accused him of rape!" the woman cried.

"Tends to happen when you rape someone," John countered, his ire increasing to the point where he was close to the consideration of hitting a woman.

"Thomas didn't rape anyone," Brenda insisted. "He was innocent, the trial said so."

"It was a mistrial," Sherlock corrected, absently. "There's a difference."

Mistrial? John's eyes turned to Sherlock, but the detective didn't meet the gaze. He was still watching the distraught couple and Gerald's silence hadn't gone unnoticed. Brenda was being quick to leap to her son's defence, but the father had said nothing thus far, which intrigued the detective.

"Anyway," he continued, changing the direction of the conversation. "We're not here to discuss the past; I'm far more interested in the present and near future, in which more people will be killed if your son is not found."

"We haven't seen him for months," Gerald finally spoke.

"Have you had any contact with him at all?"

"No," Brenda answered quickly. Too quickly, in John's opinion.

Gerald glanced at his wife and spent a moment in quiet thought. Sherlock's gaze remained on him the entire time and he wished there was a way to get the father alone to talk. Mr Jackson appeared to be far more rational, despite the colder greeting he'd provided.

"We have a contact number," Gerald eventually revealed.

"What are you doing?" his wife demanded, glaring accusingly at her spouse. "They're clearly out to get him."

"We are trying to prevent murders," Sherlock reminded her, looking at the woman, as if she were no better than the dirt on his shoes. The mother had proven to be of no use for the questioning, so he was finished with her. "We'll need that number-"

"You're not having it!" Brenda declared, furiously. "Thomas has been through enough, we _all_ have and I'm not having that tart drag our name through the mud once again."

John's breathing hitched and his anger flared, set to explode, as he took a step forward. He was absolutely fuming and knew he'd have to leave soon, with the way things were going. It infuriated him to hear anyone speak of Molly in such a way, especially someone who had far more knowledge of the events than he did. How could anyone be so… _blind_? Her son was a rapist; he and Sherlock had caught him in the act! And claiming a mistrial as proof of innocence? God, he couldn't even look at the woman!

A hand landed on his shoulder and he could hear the murmur of Sherlock's voice, but it took his enraged mind a while to register the words. He was being asked to step outside and John knew it would be wise to follow his friend's advice, so turned and walked out the room, without even acknowledging the other two human beings in the building. He wrenched the front door open and it slammed against the wall, before swinging loudly shut.

He stopped at the end of the driveway and started pacing the street, going back and forth, wearing the pavement away with the pounding of his incensed steps. His hands were shaking with rage, as the words of the stupid old bag echoed in his mind.

 _Liar! Tart_!

Tart? Molly Hooper was as far from promiscuous as you could get. It had taken her almost a year to even _hug_ someone, let alone do anything else! He had no idea what she may have been like in the past, but he couldn't see how any behaviour would warrant the horror she had gone through.

John found himself glad he hadn't accepted the pathologist's offer of reading the file; he might have needed to refurnish the room, otherwise. A mistrial…what a verdict to end up with. You endure the worst of experiences and do the right thing, by going to the police for help and what does the justice system do? Lets you down in the worst possible way. How many locals shared the Jacksons' opinion on the case? Had Molly, or Mary, at the time, suffered that kind of verbal abuse on a regular basis?

John didn't want to be there anymore. He wanted to return to London, crack on with the case, track down that filthy bastard and…and…what? Well, what John really wanted to do was highly illegal, but he could channel all the anger surging through his veins into the motive for finding Thomas Jackson. For Molly's sake, he wanted to see the man locked away for a very, very, _very_ long time.

To pass the time and dissipate some of the fury, John decided to take a walk around the street, as he wasn't sure how long Sherlock would be and had no intention of entering that house again. It was over half an hour later, when the doctor's phone beeped, signalling a message from the detective.

**I'm done. Where are you? SH**

John replied, informing his friend of his imminent return and, when he reached the car, found the detective already sat inside and buckled up. John opened the front passenger door and climbed in. Sherlock was looking at something on his phone, but there was a sheet of paper in his hand.

"What's that?" John asked, his voice quiet.

"A list of all those Thomas was in contact with, before he left Surrey."

John nodded. "Managed to get _something_ out of them, then?"

"After requesting that Mrs Jackson leave the room, yes. It appears the father is far less fond of his son, than the mother."

John had to bite his lip very hard in order to keep the anger from resurfacing. He wished he hadn't accompanied Sherlock on this excursion, and, if his friend had anticipated John's reaction, why bring him along at all? There were other concerns plaguing the doctor, as well.

"Sherlock," he began, trying not to let the emotions swarming his brain get the better of him. "We need Thomas, to get to the killer, yes?"

"Correct," Sherlock said, not looking up from the objects in his hands.

"Well, what's to stop the police making a deal with him, which lets him off, if the killer is found?"

"Not to worry, John," the detective declared, the beginnings of a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "I have everything I need to make Thomas cooperate, without the word _deal_ ever needing to be spoken."

"Really?" John shifted position, in order to face his companion.

"Oh, yes," Sherlock said, finally meeting John's gaze. An enthusiastic glint shone in his eyes. "I've been doing quite a bit of research on the man and, in an effort to correct the failings of Surrey's finest, have unearthed enough evidence to warrant a retrial."

"What, for Molly?"

"Should she wish it," the detective confirmed, placing the phone and piece of paper into his right coat pocket.

With that knowledge now planted into John's mind, the car was started and the pair began the journey home. It was a silent ride, for the most part, as Sherlock ruminated on the case and John lost himself to the information swirling about his brain. Gradually, piece by piece, he was learning more and more about what had made Molly the way she is now and his memories rewound to their very first meeting.

John had been _so_ reluctant to even go to that therapy session, thinking there was nothing worse than listening to a group of nutters discuss their "issues". Mentals Anonymous, he'd labelled it, limping into the room with the aid of that bloody walking stick. What a sight he must have been. He remembered how quiet and mousy Molly had been, having acquired the seat nearest the exit. It had been the one he'd wanted, originally, but was forced to occupy the chair beside her, instead. Upon sitting down, John had remarked that she looked as unhappy as he to be there, a comment which earned him a shy smile. Some encouragement had been required, in order to really get Molly talking, but, when the conversation reached full flow, he'd started to actually enjoy himself and was glad to have, at least, one person in the group with whom he could happily chat.

The former soldier had been absolutely ignorant of the full extent of Molly's condition back then and it was surprising to think how their friendship had developed over time. She was now sleeping on his sofa and it was getting to the stage where friendship was no longer the correct term. It was…something else.

"You should read the file, John," Sherlock suddenly said, as they passed Fulham.

Knocked out of his musings, John looked over at the driver. "What?"

"The file on Thomas," the detective repeated. "You need to know what happened."

John shook his head. "Not yet. She's not ready yet."

"You already know the worst of it. The rest is just details."

"Why are you pushing this?" he asked, hotly. He was already annoyed, so didn't need any harassment from his friend.

"Because, if you insist on falling in love with a client," Sherlock sad, matter-of-factly. "You should know everything about her, first."

John rolled his eyes. "She is _not_ a client."

A lingering pause followed, that lasted far longer than it had any right to.

"Penny in the air…" the detective muttered under his breath.

"Wait, what did you say?"

At the red light, Sherlock glanced at his passenger and had to admit the sheer bafflement staring back at him was somewhat amusing.

"Explain," John demanded.

"Oh, don't look at me like that, John. You may think love's a mystery to me, but the chemistry is very simple…and very destructive. It's what made Brenda Jackson defend her son the way she did, even though she knew he was guilty and it made you consider hitting the woman for doing so."

John had no reply to that, as he was still focusing on the previous remark. "I-I'm not…" The sentence was never completed and trailed off into silence.

"Penny drops," Sherlock said, reaching for the gear stick, as the lights turned green.

The car journey was very quiet after that.

**0**

Work had been rather quiet that day, for Molly Hooper. It usually was, without Sherlock around. Much of her shift had been preoccupied with the body that had arrived the day before and she was sad to report that no more clues had arisen during the post mortem, to help with the case. She'd been sure to send a text every couple of hours to John, at his insistence and wondered how they were getting on. The thought of Sherlock meeting Thomas' parents was a worrying one, given the natures of all three, especially his mum. Molly had very unpleasant memories of that woman.

It was almost five in the evening, when the lab doors swung open and John Watson entered.

"Oh, hello," she said, surprised by his entrance. "Didn't know you were back already."

There was no response from the doctor and, the nearer he got, the clearer she saw the expression on his face. The smile fell from her face.

"Was it that bad?" she cringed, referring to the trip.

"Hmm?" John appeared to be a little distant. "No…well, yeah, but…I didn't realise it was his parents we were seeing, until we got there."

"Oh," she was surprised by that. Why wouldn't Sherlock tell him right away?

She saw that John hadn't stilled, since entering the lab. He remained close to the table she was stood at, but he was pacing its length back and forth and, when he reached the edge nearest her, she saw his fists clench and flex. God, what had happened whilst they were there?

"That woman's a piece of work," he remarked, as much to himself, as anyone else.

Molly knew he was referring to Brenda Jackson and was in full agreement, but chose to keep her comments to herself.

"Did she say anything?" Molly asked, as John certainly seemed agitated about something and she knew Mrs Jackson wasn't her biggest fan. Had he found out more of the sordid details about her past? What would she have said? It obviously hadn't pleased him and the pathologist felt her fingers itching to twiddle.

"Yeah," he confirmed. "And I almost hit her."

The comment was said causally, almost absent-mindedly and she let out a surprised laugh. John paced along the table once more, before turning the corner, to stand beside her. He still looked rather wound up and she didn't like it. John shouldn't be worried about what others were saying about her; he needed to focus on the task at hand and helping Sherlock. Besides, she didn't like seeing the absence of a smile on his face. It wasn't right.

John's left hand landed on the table top and the fingers started drumming on the surface.

"Molly," he said. "We're going to find him."

She was unsure of who he meant, which was evident on her face.

"Thomas," John explained. "He's not getting away with it again."

Ah, so he'd heard about the mistrial, then. Did he know about the "mugging", too?

"You know that, don't you?"

He looked so earnest, as his eyes bored into hers and Molly felt her stomach give a flip. She didn't want to think about that right now and _really_ wanted him to calm down. His fidgeting was doing nothing for her nerves and there was no telling what might happen if he got too wound up. He inched closer.

"I need you to know that."

It was hard to meet the intensity of those eyes and she did the only thing she could think of to calm him down. She moved forward and put her arms around his neck, bringing him in for a hug, which he accepted, by wrapping his arms around her waist.

"Molly-"

"It's okay, John," she said, reassuringly. "It's okay."

"I know," he replied. "It just…"

"Don't worry about it," she interjected. She didn't want to discuss something that distressed him so. "Did you get what you needed?"

"Sherlock did."

"That's alright then. At least the journey wasn't wasted." Molly was trying to think of all she could say, to help him focus on the positive, rather than fume over the negatives.

John didn't speak for a while, but his arms moved further up her back and squeezed gently against her shoulder blades. What was he thinking and why was he so upset? She let him stew silently and just hoped her actions were helping, even if only a little. John just needed to relax and the previous night would be his last on the sofa. He'd graciously let her use his bed for the past three nights, but it was only fair to give it back. He needed an evening of crap telly, bad food and decent sleep.

John inhaled deeply, before exhaling and it was a sign that he had calmed himself down.

"Alright, now?" she asked, quietly, still holding on, just in case he needed a little longer.

John chuckled and his breath tickled the hair at the nape of her neck. Each released their grips, creating a small space between them, but her hands still rested on his shoulders and his had returned to her waist. She studied his face and, unfortunately, still saw a few worry lines creasing his forehead. However, he appeared a lot more composed than a few minutes ago, so it was a step in the right direction. His eyes were focused downwards, an unreadable expression sitting on his features and she was tempted to lower her face into his field of vision, just to get a glimpse of those greenish-blue orbs.

Molly wasn't entirely sure what to do next, as their hug was over, but he seemed in no hurry to let go. She wasn't entirely keen to cease contact, either, if she was honest. These were the small steps she needed, in order to progress to where she one day aspired to be and she had finally admitted to herself that she enjoyed his touch. The rest of the world she could take or leave and often welcomed her own company, but John was one of the very few people she looked forward to spending time with. These last few days, she was glad to have lived under the same roof as John, because she probably wouldn't have coped with the distress very well alone.

John's eyes moved upwards, connecting with hers and Molly was finally offered the chance to attempt reading his thoughts through them. She was once again overwhelmed by their intensity and a whirlwind of emotions were swirling within the irises. She couldn't look away and the space between them was slowly decreasing, but consciousness of the fact didn't register immediately.

Neither was aware of how it happened, but, suddenly, their lips were touching, in the softest of kisses. Molly's eyes shut instinctively and, surprised by the sudden surge of sensation, she bunched the fabric of his jacket in her fists. The contact was brief and there was no time for assessment, as the lab doors burst open yet again.

The pair leapt apart and Molly thought her heart was going to jump out of her mouth, as Sherlock walked towards them, engrossed in whatever was on his phone. John looked over his shoulder, to throw a glare at his friend, who was removing his coat and scarf and hanging it on the coat stand. When the doctor's head swivelled back to its previous position, the person he had expected to see was no longer there.

Molly had gone.

John sighed, as a curse escaped, under his breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aww, their first kiss! How was that? I hope it lived up to expectations.
> 
> As a bonus, I added a Dr Who quote in this chapter, just because it seemed perfect for the moment. Points to whoever spots it!
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed and I'll update ASAP :)
> 
> As always, thanks for reading.


	26. 26

** Chapter Twenty Six **

Molly Hooper couldn't see, as she made her way to the nearest toilet cubicle. Her vision was blurred, her breath came in short, quick gasps and the cubicle door slammed against the wall, as she shoved it open, before trembling fingers fumbled with the lock. Now shut away from the rest of the world, her back slid down the tiled wall, before the tears obstructing her sight fell down her cheeks and her hands pressed over her mouth to stifle any sound.

Molly wept.

To describe what had just occurred in the laboratory was impossible. It required sense and an emotional maturity she hadn't yet reached. Her heart was thudding wildly against her chest and she thought her brain might explode, with the war raging inside. Her shoulders heaved with every sob and the anguished mewls slipped through her fingers. Try as she might, the pathologist couldn't stop the sounds escaping, as pressing her hands tighter against her lips didn't work.

The crying was uncontrollable and Molly was soon finding it difficult to breathe. The small compartment of rationality in her brain cautioned her to calm down, before she did any serious damage, but it felt nigh on impossible. Her chest felt tight and her hands were shaking, which explained why the cries were audible. The breathing was getting shallower and starting to hurt, which was when Molly knew she _had_ to deal with the panic attack. They were nothing new, but it had been a while since her last experience, so she had to remember the four steps Doctor Thompson had made her practice. They'd called it the Alphabet Code, as each step was labelled A, B, C and D.

Firstly, Molly had to _**a**_ _cknowledge_ what was happening. That was easy, as she'd just done so. She was having a panic attack in the ladies' toilets. Next, she had to calm her _**b**_ _reathing_ and allow the oxygen to start flowing through her system once more. That step was a little more difficult and the pathologist had to brace herself, by placing her hands firmly on the floor and closing her eyes. In through the nose, hold for five seconds and release from the mouth.

The third step was to _**c**_ _oncentrate_. Molly had to find something to distract her mind and focus on it. Usually, this was reciting the lyrics from the Kookaburra Song.

"Kookaburra sits on the old gum tree,  
Merry, merry king of the bush is he.  
Laugh, Kookaburra, laugh, Kookaburra,  
Gay your life must be."

The words left her lips in breathless whispers, as she was still regulating the flow of air into her system, but, by the end of the song, the tightness in her chest had loosened and she was no longer gasping like a fish out of water.

The fourth step was to _**d**_ _etermine_ the cause. What had started the attack? This step could only begin, once the attack was either finished, or very close to the end. Start too soon, and the attack would only return. Molly wasn't sure if she'd _ever_ be able to commence step four, because it was absolutely terrifying and, in her mind, absolutely warranted panic. She had to give herself a mental slap, for that. No, nothing warranted panic, she was forced to remind herself. Unless someone is pointing a gun to your head, there is no need to panic.

Taking several more deep breaths, as well as repeating the third step briefly, Molly finally felt ready to commence with step four. Opening her eyes, the young woman focused her sight on one of the ceiling tiles above her head, knowing that closed eyes would only make her visualise what had happened and she wasn't ready for that.

Molly had kissed John. John had kissed Molly. They had kissed each other. The truth hit her, like a hammer hits a nail and fingers inadvertently went to her lips. She couldn't remember who initiated it or what had caused it to happen. It just _happened_. One minute, they were locked in an embrace and, the next thing she could remember was having her eyes closed and feeling warm, soft lips pressed against hers.

Molly's stomach did something odd, as though a force deep inside kicked her abdomen and her breathing hitched. Clutching the fabric covering her chest, her heart rate increased once again and it all culminated into a sensation that was…not _un_ pleasant?

No, no, no, no, _no_! It was bad, all of it bad and it would only lead to bad things. That was how it worked, how it had _always_ worked. Nothing good ever came from those actions, which she knew better than most and there had to be a reason she'd suffered a panic attack afterwards.

The anger began to seep in, at herself, at the situation, at the man she'd left in the morgue, whose only crime was being a wonderful person. Why couldn't he have just waited? He'd always let things move at her own pace in the past, so why would he try to ruin it all now, when she was _so close_ to getting there on her own. What was he trying to do to her? Had he even _done_ anything? Maybe it was her. Perhaps, _she_ had been the one to do it, her body betraying sense and acting of its own accord.

"Fuck!" she yelled, the back of her head hitting the wall behind.

The moisture was gathering along her lashes again and the butterflies were swarming her stomach, but it wasn't a panic attack, this time. No, this time, it was just tears of frustration and despair at her pathetic situation. What was she supposed to do now? She could hardly face the man, after what had just happened, but, what if he and Sherlock spent the rest of the evening there? And, not to mention, she was also temporarily _living_ with the man. How could she possibly be in that living room, drinking tea or coffee and watching telly, with him sitting in that bloody armchair, only a few feet away?

Bringing her knees up, she leaned her torso forward, so that her elbows could rest on them and buried her face in her hands. How long she remained in that position was anybody's guess.

Eventually, Molly came to the realisation that she couldn't spend the rest of her life in the ladies', so got to her feet and set about removing all traces of her meltdown. It took a while and, when she finally emerged from the bathroom, almost an hour had passed. The clock on the wall down the hallway informed her that it was almost half past six. Would they still be in the lab? There was only one way to find out, but she was too cowardly, so decided to head down to the morgue and see if any work needed to be done.

If possible, Molly planned to remain at the hospital, until the hands on the clock pointed to a time that made it safe to assume everyone might be in bed or asleep.

**0**

It was almost midnight, when Molly sought a cab to transport her to Baker Street. The hospital was dead, inhabited only by those required to do a night shift and the streets were almost as empty. It was probably quite reckless, to roam the streets of such a bustling city so late, but she'd rather face that danger, than confront the terrifying consequences of her earlier actions. There was always the possibility of staying somewhere else for the night. A hotel, perhaps? Molly was sorely tempted, but couldn't bring herself to do it. John would worry, panic about where she might be or what might have happened to her and, despite her apprehension, she _still_ couldn't bring herself to do that to him.

Eventually, she flagged down an empty taxi and climbed in. Her heart beat faster, with the passing of each streetlight and, when the vehicle finally reached its destination, the pathologist felt sick. She absently handed the driver a note and didn't bother to wait for any change, as she climbed out of the car and saw the black front door, waiting ominously ahead. Could she go to a hotel? She could always text John or Sherlock and let them know where she was. They wouldn't panic and she wouldn't have to, either.

With more effort than she'd ever thought required, her left foot moved forward, before forcing the right to follow. It would have to be done sooner or later, so there was no point delaying the inevitable. If she was lucky (which she usually wasn't), the detective and his blogger might have gone to bed after their tiring day. She hoped so, she _really_ did.

The curtains were closed in the window above, but no light filtered through the small space between them, which could be read as a good sign. Molly had been given a spare key, so that she wasn't reliant on others being home during her stay and she opened the door as quietly as possible, not wishing to wake anyone, if they were, indeed, asleep.

The creak of the carpeted floorboards beneath her feet had never seemed so loud. Knowing her luck, Molly would probably trip up the stairs and cause the three residents to come rushing to her aid. That was the _last_ thing she needed. When she got to the door of 221B, the pathologist halted for a moment and closed her eyes, taking several long, deep breaths. She had to be ready for whatever might await her inside. Her hand must have rested on the handle for at least five minutes, before slowly turning it.

A dim, amber glow greeted her, as she entered the lounge. It was very quiet and, for the briefest of moments, Molly thought she might actually have got away with it. Her back was turned, as she let the door click quietly shut, but, when she turned around, all hope vanished. Luck wasn't on her side and she wasn't alone.

John Watson stood between the two armchairs, watching her entrance into the flat. His arms were rod straight at his sides and his thumbs rubbed nervously over clenched fingers. The moment her eyes fell upon his face, her stomach flipped, breathing hitched and she froze. John's eyes fell to the floor, as his feet shuffled and he took a deep breath of his own, before returning his gaze to the woman before him. Molly chewed her bottom lip, her eyes circling the room, unable to look at the doctor. She should have waited, given it another hour or so, before leaving Bart's. She should have known John wouldn't leave things the way they were; he wasn't a coward. Not like her.

"Can we talk?"

John's voice was so quiet, that the pathologist struggled to hear him. Looking over her shoulder, she glanced wistfully at the door, wishful for escape.

"Please?"

Never had Molly heard such vulnerability in John's voice and it reached into her chest, squeezing her heart. How could she say no to that? As a reply, she carefully removed the bag strap from her shoulder and let it fall quietly to the floor. John watched her every move like a hawk and his head nodded slightly, recognising the gesture. He took a small step forward and her body tensed. His hands were lifted in a sign of reassurance.

"I'm not going to do anything," he insisted, his voice still very soft. "I won't even touch you. I…I just need to explain, that's all."

His words grasped her attention and a spark of panic ignited in her eyes. Despite her anxieties, that one comment of ceasing contact managed to trouble her more than anything else he could have said. What was bloody wrong with her? Just a minute ago, she had prayed for his absence from the building and now she was worried he might never touch her again? Perhaps it would be for the doctor's own good, if she left the flat and never came back.

"I…" John struggled for a start to the conversation and paused for a moment, as his eyes flitted to the window. He licked his lips, before continuing. "I honestly can't explain what happened in the lab. It wasn't planned and…it upset you. For that, I'm truly sorry."

Molly listened intently, her pulse soaring and fingers twitching. Why wasn't he looking at her?

John took another deep breath, his eyes now on the floor. "But…" The doctor appeared to be struggling yet again. "I don't regret what I did."

Molly's heart skipped a beat, but she was too numb to know if it was from fear or joy. Perhaps, it was both. John's eyes finally lifted, to settle upon her, but the pathologist was too far away to read them.

"I'm well aware that the timing is shit," he said, ruefully. "And you might not even want…" he trailed off, his eyes leaving Molly again and he scratched his left temple.

The silence lingering between them was suffocating, as Molly's brain predicted the direction his words were going. The temperature in the room was rising and she could feel the clamminess in her palms. Her fingers clenched and flexed, trying to relieve the mounting pressure.

"Christ," John muttered, glancing up at the ceiling, before his eyes returned to the young woman and let out a quick laugh, full of desperation and frustration. "I've chased criminals across the city, had guns pointed at me by Chinese assassins and even worn a coat full of explosives!" A pause, as a regretful smile tugged at his lips. "Yet, I can't tell a woman how I feel about her."

His eyes locked with Molly's and, for a while, they pair did nothing but watch one another. If John was hoping for a response, he had a _very_ long wait ahead of him, because she had absolutely no idea what to say. He took another step forward and she almost forgot how to breathe, as she waited to hear his next words.

He licked his lips again, before speaking. His voice was soft once more and overloaded with the sort of sentiment his flatmate abhorred. "As I said before, the problems of your past are _your_ business." A deep, bracing breath. "But, the problems of your future…would be my privilege."

Molly's face crumpled and tears formed in her eyes. John's gaze was still fixed on the pathologist and he could see the pain she was in, but had promised to keep his distance, so didn't rush to offer comfort, however much he wished to do so.

"It's all I have to say," he said, looking ready to finish their talk. "And it's everything you need to know. No expectations are placed upon you, Molly."

The use of her name twisted the young woman's insides, but she was too fraught with confusion to make sense of the involuntary reaction. He walked towards the door. His movement brought the pair within touching distance and, whilst her barriers crumbled around her, Molly felt an overwhelming urge to reach out for him. She didn't, because she was immobilised by too many emotions to count and her eyes remained fixed straight ahead, as the door hinge whined behind her.

"Goodnight, Molly."

The door closed and footsteps announced John's retreat to his bedroom.

Silence followed.

Energy left the body of the young woman, forcing her to carefully lower to the floor and lean her tired self against the side of the settee. Tears still sat in the inner corners of Molly's eyes, but she couldn't find the will to release them and breath exited her lips in quivering sighs. It was all too much for one person to take.

Molly fell asleep and there were no nightmares that night, as every inch of her mind was preoccupied by one man and the nine words that had changed everything.

_The problems of your future…would be my privilege._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta-dah!
> 
> I have been wracking my brains for aaaaaaaaaggesss, trying to find a way to fit the "future is my privilege" scene into this story, because I absolutely loved the way it was done in the show. My take on it doesn't do it justice at all, but it's such a monumental scene for John and Mary, that I couldn't not use it.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed and the next chapter is on its way :)


	27. 27

** Chapter Twenty Seven **

The sound of water hitting white acrylic was almost deafening and steam billowed from the warm liquid, fogging the window and mirror. To anyone outside the bathroom, it sounded like someone having a shower. Whilst technically true, almost half an hour had passed, since the woman sat in the bathtub reached a level of cleanliness acceptable to commence the day.

Molly, wet and oblivious to the passing minutes, watched the patterns of evaporating air dance across the room, lost in rumination. Her mind was spinning uncontrollably with thought and she didn't know where to begin, because there was no beginning. This was far too big to have a start, middle and end. This was… _everything_.

Nine words. That was all it took. With nine simple words, John Watson had torn Molly Hooper to pieces. He wanted her, wanted to _be_ with her. He, who had seen Molly at her very lowest, watched her rebuild a life, discovered her tragic past and knew almost the full extent of her broken mind, was willing to accept it all and even help her through whatever else was to come.

It was too good to be true; _nobody_ was that good. And, if they were, what could Molly ever offer to them? What would possess a man to want to carry that burden? Men like that deserved the best, deserved someone who could make them happy. How could she bring cheer to another, when she was so dejected inside? She couldn't give John what he wanted. A panic attack had arisen after a chaste kiss, so what would anything else do?

And, yet…he knew that. John Watson wasn't going in blind. He knew it would require time, patience and a willingness to forgo all the standards of a routine relationship. He knew this and _still_ chose to call it a privilege. Some people just didn't know what was good for them.

Once upon a time, Molly had known _exactly_ what was good for her: quiet, solitude and the ability to remain under everyone's radar. It had been safe and easy, forcing her to rely on nobody, but herself. But…everything was different, now. She wasn't alone, her life wasn't quiet and she didn't know how to react to the rush of feeling assaulting her senses, every time her gaze fell upon the man with the silvery blonde hair.

John had been there, in the kitchen that morning, as her eyes reluctantly opened. She hadn't spotted him, at first, because she was too busy working out how she'd climbed onto the sofa in her sleep, but his voice, mingled with the low baritone of his detective flatmate, had filtered through the air, to reach her ears.

Molly didn't move, too afraid to face a confrontation with the doctor, after the previous night's revelations, so chose to quietly observe the pair, for a while. Sherlock was sat at the kitchen table, surrounded by glass tubes of assorted shapes and sizes, with the laptop open in front of him, whilst John sat opposite, a newspaper in his left hand and a mug in his right.

The fog of sleep hadn't lifted its veil completely, so her brain was able to absorb John's countenance without reservation. An attempt had been made to tame his hair, but the odd tuft refused to give in to peer pressure. Molly remembered the feel of it lightly brushing against her fingers, when he'd fallen asleep in the lab and a tingle ran down her body at the memory, causing her hand to flex on impulse.

She'd continued to watch, unable to focus on what either man was saying, because her eyes had fallen to his lips and the memory of their kiss encouraged the feelings to swarm every one of her veins, until they ignited the sensation she was too afraid to embrace. It left her cheeks warm and mouth dry.

John eventually stirred from his seat and made his way back up to his bedroom, presumably to get dressed. The pathologist feigned sleep in that moment, until the coast was clear and then got up, grabbed some clothing from her suitcase and made a hasty journey to the bathroom. Sherlock didn't say a word, which left her wondering how much he knew.

Molly levered herself into a standing position and stepped underneath the torrent of water, rinsing off the last remnants of soap. She wasn't sure what the detective and his blogger had planned for the day and, although it was technically a day off for the pathologist, she didn't want to remain inside the flat all day.

There was a place, besides work, Molly had considered visiting, an idea that came to her sometime during the shower, but it induced fear in the young woman. Her last session with Ella Thompson had been quite some time ago, as the psychiatrist claimed her patient was recovering well enough to warrant less regular meetings, and the doctor wasn't aware of the truth behind her patient's condition. Molly could hardly just turn up and say "Oh, guess what! I lied to you about pretty much everything and now expect you to sort out this little conundrum for me." It didn't work that way.

But, there was no getting away from the fact that she needed help. She couldn't work this out on her own and there was nobody else to talk to. Would Ella even see her? Molly wasn't sure whether shrinks did drop-ins. Well, there was only one way to find out.

**0**

Two hours later, Molly was sat in a beige, air conditioned waiting room, a bundle of nerves. Apparently, Ella was available for drop-ins, although, only because she could hear the troubled tone of her patient's voice down the phone. The pathologist thought it was rather good of Thompson, to agree to see her on such short notice, especially as it had required squeezing her in between other patients.

"Miss Hooper?" called the receptionist.

Molly stood and was told to enter the room belonging to the psychiatrist. Ella was waiting inside the door, a welcoming smile on her face.

"Come in," she said, gesturing to one of the chairs near the window, before closing the door behind Molly.

Before sitting, Molly turned to face Thompson. "Thanks for seeing me," she said. "I hope I haven't been too much of a pain."

"Of course not," the doctor assured, settling herself in her chair. "I've always said you can call me any time."

Molly nodded, before taking the chair opposite and removing her bag. Ella was sifting through the pages of her notepad, looking for a clean sheet and the pathologist remained silent, until her doctor was ready to listen.

"So, Molly," Thompson began, pen cradled in her fingers. "What's going on?"

Molly bit her lip, thinking of how best to start. When she'd earlier thought of her problem being too big to have a beginning, it really wasn't an exaggeration. She hadn't the foggiest how to commence.

"I…" she paused, chin resting in her left palm, as she scrambled for a coherent explanation. Her foot was lightly tapping against the wooden floor, making her knee bob up and down. "It's hard to explain."

"Take your time," the psychiatrist said, gently.

"O-okay, sorry. I, um-"

"Molly," Ella interjected, leaning forward. "Firstly, I want you to calm down. There's no hurry, just have a think about what you want to discuss. And stop apologising, there's really no need. This is my job, remember?"

Molly nodded, her eyes falling to the floor. After a couple of long moment's consideration, she took a deep breath, ready to begin a second time.

"Th-there's…someone…I've met." Molly's eyes remained on the floor. She didn't want to name the man in question, as he was a former patient of Ella's and that might make things…weird. "I mean, we met ages ago and he's a good friend, now…but…"

"He wants more?" Thompson finished, her brows rising to seek confirmation.

Molly's eyes rose, to meet the woman's before her and she nodded.

"And, how does that make you feel?"

_Petrified. Elated. Confused._

"It…" Molly desperately sought for the right words. "I don't know, I…I can't describe how I feel, because too much is going on."

"Can you tell me what's going on?" the doctor encouraged. "Perhaps, if we can lessen some of the confusion clouding your reasoning, we can help you work out where to go next. I must ask, though, that he isn't pushing you, is he?" A frown of concern marked the doctor's features.

"No, no, nothing like that," the young woman quickly insisted. "He's got the patience of a saint, actually."

"Good," Ella smiled. "So, what is it that's making it hard for you? Has he told you outright how he feels?"

Molly nodded and flashbacks of his confession entered her brain. The very memory of last night elicited countless emotions and she squirmed in her seat, unable to contain the well of feeling rising within.

"Do you feel the same?"

Molly's pulse immediately quickened, as this was the dreaded question she had been trying to ignore, but the answer had been hammering relentlessly at her subconscious. She'd fought against it, ever since seeing that woman sitting in the armchair of 221B by the fire at Christmas. That answer was the reason she had so carefully considered the present, neatly wrapped with a bow, which Sherlock zeroed in on and deduced her for. It was the reason she so readily heeded every summons to Baker Street, no matter what she was doing at the time, because it gave her the chance to enjoy the company of a person, who'd never made her feel anything less than wonderful. It was the reason she hated Thomas Jackson so much, because he'd left her terrified of ever reciprocating the kindness and warmth offered by another. It was the reason she felt her heart squeeze and chest tighten, every time she caught a glimpse of that charming smile.

"Molly?"

Ella Thompson sliced through her patient's thoughts, worried by the length of silence. Molly's eyes returned to the psychiatrist, a little dazed and the doctor's question was repeated. The pathologist tried again to fight the answer, feeling the barriers of terror slam into place, but there were cracks in the walls, now and Molly knew she'd have to give the answer eventually, or risk living a lifetime of regret. Besides, this was the reason she had come to Thompson, in the first place.

"I do."

Those two words left Molly's lips quietly and, with them, came a heady rush of relief and panic. How two opposing sensations could reside together, she didn't know, but it was happening and the pathologist started chewing the edge of her thumb nail.

"What is stopping you?"

"I'm afraid," Molly admitted in a whisper, her voice trembling slightly, as moisture gathered along her lower lashes.

"Of what?"

 _Everything,_ she wanted to say, but that was too vague a reply. She had to be specific, if she was going to tackle the problem.

"Of…of…"

Molly sniffed, as the tears began to fall and, wracked with frustration, lunged forward to clasp Ella's hand. The doctor was a little startled by the sudden motion and wondered what was going on, but relaxed somewhat, when she realised her patient wasn't going to harm her.

"Of this!" The young woman declared, tightening her grip a little. "This should be the easiest thing in the world. I should be able to do this every single day, without even batting an eyelid." She let go and started to feel twitchy, prompting her feet to begin tapping again. "But, it's not! I can't even hold someone's hand, without wanting to run in the opposite direction."

It seemed as though Molly was no longer speaking to Ella, but herself.

"And I hate it. I hate being touched. I hate what it says about me as a person and I hate that it means I will never be able to give him what he wants, what _I_ want! Because I do, I want it so much and I want to be able to tell him that, but _this_ -" She pointed to her head. "Always gets in the way!"

Ella listened intently and the notepad had been discarded, because, without realising, Molly had finally given her psychiatrist the thing she'd always hoped for. She was opening up, voicing the fears inhibiting her and finally letting out some of that emotion locked away deep inside. At no point did the doctor interrupt, happy to let her patient continue raging in the middle of her office. It was proving to be cathartic and Ella was seeing just how tightly wound Molly had become. The pathologist was like a coiled spring, the tension building until it could no longer be contained. By the end of her speech, Molly was practically sobbing and, from the way she flopped back into the chair, it was clear the offloading had used up a considerable amount of energy.

Ella picked up the box of tissues from the table beside her. It was kept on hand for moments such as these and she held it out to Molly. The pathologist plucked a couple of sheets from the opening and started wiping her eyes. A period of silence was allowed to fall upon the room, as the doctor thought it best to give her patient a moment to calm down. Eventually, when the young woman appeared to have relaxed enough to continue, Ella asked her next question.

"Do you know what it is fuelling your dislike of physical contact, Molly?"

The pathologist nodded.

"Explain it to me."

Molly closed her eyes and took a couple of deep breaths. Her head ached and she was definitely going to purchase some painkillers after this session.

"It frightens me," she said. "Makes me feel uncomfortable." She didn't reveal that John was the exception to the rule.

"Do you know why?"

Molly nodded, starting to bite her lip again. Ella watched, expectantly.

"I…I'm afraid. Afraid of memories, of what it'll remind me of."

Ella was intrigued and shifted forward in her seat. "What does it remind you of?"

"No," Molly immediately said. "I don't want to talk about that."

"Are you sure?" Ella urged. "It could help to open up about your fears."

"Not that," the pathologist insisted and, when the doctor attempted to push further, the young woman shook her head, a pleading look in her eyes. "Please," she begged.

A little deflated, Ella sat back again. "Alright. I won't force you, Molly."

"Thank you," the patient softly said, her eyes facing downwards.

Another period of quiet followed, as the patient and doctor considered all that had been revealed. Molly had never anticipated the session being quite so affecting.

"Describe him to me."

Molly was surprised by the request and it threw her for a moment. Describe John? What good was that going to do?

"You don't have to name names," Ella assured her. "Just tell me a little about this man."

"Why?"

"Because, he must be rather special, if you are willing to overcome your fears for him."

Molly's brain was suddenly assaulted by thoughts, feelings and images of John Watson. Every laugh, every smile, every time he'd held her close and made her feel safe ran through her mind and she didn't know where to begin. She'd never had to even think of a description for the man, he was simply…John. He'd been a constant, when everything else was so chaotic.

"Er…he's, um, he's about five seven, early forties and-" She chewed the inside of her cheek, before the most bizarre, inconsequential fact about the former soldier came to mind. "Has a thing for elbow patches?"

Ella actually laughed, as the last fact left Molly's lips and, surprisingly, the young woman smiled in return.

"Go on," the psychiatrist encouraged.

"Um…h-he has green eyes," she continued. "Short hair. It's, um, blonde, but starting to go, y'know, a bit grey. It should age him a bit, but his face makes him look younger than he is…especially when…y'know…he smiles."

Molly's face flushed at that last comment and she wished it could be taken back. Her eyes were on the floor, so she couldn't see the hint of a smile tugging at her doctor's cheeks.

"He's, uh, got this way of walking," she continued, wishing she could ask Ella to turn down the heating, as the room was feeling rather warm. "Kind of-" she sought for the correct term. "-militaristic or regimented. Probably from his army days…"

As her description continued, Molly could feel her confidence grow and, soon, the stumbles and stammers ended, allowing a faultless flow of words. She wasn't sure how detailed Ella wanted the description to be, so simply said each thing that came to mind, right down to how John liked his tea and coffee. Thompson was quiet and contemplative, whilst listening to every single thing Molly said and the doctor didn't reveal that she knew exactly who her patient was talking about.

"That's about it, really," Molly finished, finally letting her eyes connect with those opposite.

"Very good," Thompson praised with a smile. She repositioned her legs, as she reclined in her chair and interlaced the fingers of the hands resting in her lap. "He certainly sounds like a catch," she chuckled, without a trace of mockery in her tone. Ella was truly happy for the pathologist.

Molly's eyes fell once again and the blush, which had faded during her description, returned full force, leaving the thirtysomething feeling like a teenager again.

"Molly," Thompson said, trying to catch the attention of the young woman. "I would like to offer you some advice."

Molly dared herself to look up, which took a remarkable amount of effort.

"Tell him."

The pathologist frowned. Tell who what? Later, she would wonder how she ever managed to graduate university.

"Tell this man how you feel. I know you're afraid and, believe me, it's not unusual. If I had to give a session to every person nervous about starting a new relationship, I wouldn't get a day off until retirement."

Tell John how she felt? That was far easier said than done, as the very notion made her stomach churn with terror.

"You're worried about the memories, but, perhaps you could try seeing this from another angle. Instead of focusing on the past, why not use this as an opportunity to create _new_ memories? Erase the negative associations and replace them with something positive. Swap the bad for the good."

Molly sat in silence, taking in the advice she had just received. A part of her was ready to completely disregard it, scoffing at the very idea. Replace the bad? Swap it for something good? How the Hell had this woman qualified to be a psychiatrist? Didn't she know what her patient was suffering from? It was trauma, not a faulty item to be returned to a bloody shop!

Then, the quieter, more thoughtful and sensible portion of her psyche made its presence known, with a whisper that reached right down to the very darkest part of her mind. It offered encouragement and courage, pleading with its host to do as the doctor said. Tell John the truth and trust him. He wouldn't hurt her. If anybody could help her erase the horror of her past, his chances of doing so would be better than anyone else.

_Create new memories. Swap bad for good._

That mantra circled Molly's brain for the rest of the therapy session and the entire journey home. How to do it, though? The very thought of just blurting it out made her sick with nerves. Could she write a letter or send a text, instead? No, that was an insult to the man, after all he had done for her. John had revealed his feelings to her face, so the very least Molly could do was return the gesture and almost the entire English dictionary entered her mind, as she wondered how best to word the confession.

The contemplation almost sent her to A & E, as she was mere inches from getting run over by a car and the irony of the situation immediately struck her. It would be typical of her luck to get hospitalised, just as she'd found the courage to admit her feelings for John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Move over plot, it's time for character development! Don't worry, there will be more story soon, I just wanted to focus some more on Molly for the time being.
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed and I'll have the next update with you ASAP :)


	28. 28

** Chapter Twenty Eight **

The flat was empty, when Molly returned that afternoon. She had no idea where the investigative pair might be and Mrs Hudson wasn't home, either, which left the pathologist completely alone in Baker Street. A surge of relief flooded the young woman's veins, as she dumped her bag down to the floor, before disappointment followed. She'd geared herself up for an emotional encounter, only to find no release for the pent up energy.

For a period of time far longer than it had any right to be, Molly just stood by the sofa, her eyes aimlessly roaming the room. What was she supposed to do now? Would John be back any time soon? It was never a good idea to guess what Sherlock might have dragged him into, because no stretch of the imagination could match the reality of working with the consulting detective. She could only pray they avoided psychotic taxi drivers.

In the end, the pathologist decided to dispel some of her energy on tidying up the flat. Dishes needed washing, carpets and rugs needed hoovering and the place just needed a general clean. The kitchen table, however, she was going to leave well alone. Christ knew what Sherlock might've been breeding in one of those test tubes. Throughout the chores, her mind still contemplated Ella Thompson's words: _create new memories. Swap bad for good._ Each utterance of those words made her abdomen contract in the strangest of ways, but she still couldn't gauge whether her bravery would be high enough to actually follow the advice.

Many hours later, when the daylight had given way to night and the streetlamps were at full brightness, Molly was stirring sugar into her cup of tea, wondering just where the rest of the building's inhabitants might have gone. It was getting late and not a sound had been heard, since her return that afternoon. She was considering calling one of them, when the flat door opened dramatically and she let out a yelp. Placing a hand to her chest, she felt the thud of her heart, as the first of the flat's occupants entered the room.

"Molly!" cried Sherlock, pulling off his scarf. "You're here. Good. Hungry?"

He held up a bag of what appeared to be takeaway food, but, still recovering from the shock of the dramatic entrance, Molly was unable to do more than gawp at the unusually cheerful detective.

"Sherlock, there won't be a wall left, if you keep slamming that sodding door into it!"

John's voice reached Molly's ears and any hope of her pulse returning to normal was abandoned. He was also carrying a bag of food and she would have wondered at the occasion, were her thoughts not otherwise engaged. Although quite a distance stood between her and the doctor, she could hear the good humour in his tone and found herself intrigued.

"Oh, who cares about a door, John?" the detective asked rhetorically, shrugging out of his coat. "We're _this_ close!" He held his thumb and finger up, allowing only a tiny amount of space between them. "All we need is a name."

The garment was thrown over the back of a chair, before Sherlock strode over to the door and called down the staircase.

"Mrs Hudson!"

Silence followed, as he waited for a reply and seemed rather puzzled when none came.

"She's not in," Molly explained, her voice sounding very small in comparison to the booming detective's. "At least, I haven't heard anything."

"Oh, yeah," John said, standing beside the coffee table. "She mentioned something about seeing that Mr Whatsisname…"

"Then, she'd better like cold chips," Sherlock muttered, before walking to the centre of the lounge and halting suddenly. His hands went up and his head swivelled from side to side, as bafflement clouded his features. Molly wondered what he might have lost. "Something's different," he remarked, his eyes narrowing, as they swept the surroundings.

"I tidied?" Molly answered, her uncertainty turning the response into a query.

Sherlock's eyes went straight to the kitchen table.

"I didn't touch any of that," she assured him, pointing to the assortment of scientific equipment.

Sherlock's features instantly relaxed, before he started undoing the buttons of his suit jacket, in order to remove it. He was buzzing with excitable energy and Molly couldn't reign in her curiosity any longer. Sherlock Holmes offering dinner was a new concept for Molly, because, not once, in all the time she'd known him, had it ever happened before. Something had occurred; something good, judging by his mood. Unfortunately, the detective had disappeared into his bedroom and Molly doubted she'd get any answers from him anyway, which meant she would have to ask John.

He was currently hanging his coat up on one of the hooks near the door. Extracts from her earlier description of the doctor echoed in her mind and, for a moment, she could do nothing but stare at the man. He gaze quickly fell, when he turned in her direction and she reached for her drink, in order to distract from the awkwardness.

"Sorry about him," John said, taking a few slow steps towards the pathologist. "He's had a good day."

To his credit, John's voice was remained neutral, betraying nothing of their encounter the previous evening. Unable to look directly at him, just yet, Molly blew on her tea to bring it down to a more bearable drinking temperature.

"Why?" she asked.

"I suppose it could be considered a good day for you, too," John said and he almost had her meeting his gaze. His voice lowered. "We found him, Molly."

No further elucidation was required and her eyes snapped up to his. Her pupils searched the dark green depths, trying to find the lie beneath the words, yet she saw nothing but truth. They'd found Thomas? John had sworn they would, but surely not? Promises were made to be broken, not kept. There was no describing how she felt in that moment, knowing that Thomas was off the streets. She was safe, even if only for a little while.

"How?" she managed to whisper.

"Turns out that the visit to his parents' was extremely helpful. Sherlock got a list of recent contacts and discovered that a couple were from London. It took quite some time to track them down, being drug dealers and all, but it wasn't hard, getting them to talk. Sherlock arranged a meeting, letting Thomas believe it was from one of the dealers and that was how we nabbed him."

"So, he's been arrested?" she asked, wanting to double check.

"Yes," John confirmed, standing almost right beside her now. "I said we'd get him."

"Yes, we've got him," Sherlock interjected, emerging from his room. "But that's not the end. We still need to question him and, Molly," he turned to the pathologist. "You're going to have to give a statement. Possibly, even identify him."

Her eyes widened in horror.

"He won't even know you're there," Sherlock continued. "And all we need to get from him is the name of the killer. One name!"

The detective walked away, lost in musings and ramblings.

"But, what happens after that?" Molly queried. "I mean, he's not going to just give you a name. Not without…"

"Molly," Sherlock interrupted, plonking himself onto the sofa and stretching out his long limbs. The hands were pressed together, meaning a spell in the Mind Palace was on its way. "Thomas Jackson is going to be spending the majority of the rest of his life in prison." His head swivelled, to glance in her direction. "With or without a name."

Disbelief fell upon the young woman's face. She'd heard that sort of thing before.

"It's true," the man beside her insisted. "Sherlock's got enough on him get him a pretty hefty sentence."

"Yes," the detective concurred. "He's been quite the busy little criminal."

"Doing what?" Molly wondered.

"Besides the obvious," Sherlock replied. "Theft, drugs-possession and dealing-burglary, indecent assault, accessory to murder…the list is _endless_." There was a note of glee in his tone.

"R-really?" Her eyes swung back to John, looking to him once more for confirmation.

John didn't say anything, but nodded. Molly was absolutely speechless. There was no way to contain the gratitude and she could feel her hands starting to shake, so turned to place her cup back on the kitchen counter, before it slipped from her fingers. There were so many things she wanted to do and say, but was too overwhelmed to even begin. She couldn't even bring herself to cry!

Taking in a deep breath, she clasped her hands together and headed for the bathroom. She needed a moment alone. Nobody stopped her and, upon entering, she closed the door quietly behind her. Every movement was carefully executed and she inhaled and exhaled steadily, before leaning her weight against the door. Resting her forehead against the cool wooden surface, Molly closed her eyes.

Thomas Jackson was going to prison. The man who had made her life a living purgatory had been caught and, thanks to the two men on the other side of the door, he was now in a holding cell, awaiting interrogation. Sherlock seemed certain the man would pay a hefty price for his crimes and, despite the fears and past failures of the law, there was an unshakeable belief within the young woman, pushing its way to the surface. She tried to reign it in, keep it at bay and refuse acknowledgement, but it was proving too strong. One of John's promises had come true, so why shouldn't another?

John.

What had Molly ever done to deserve him? This was it, the final straw. She had to tell him, had to let him know how important he was. Having achieved something Molly always believed to be impossible, she was willing to give him whatever he wanted, even if it terrified her.

_Create new memories._

Molly wanted to. Desperately. If she thought of a kiss, she wanted the only image in her mind to be of that moment in the lab. If she held hands, she wanted to remember the times John's fingers had wrapped around hers, offering warmth and comfort. It could be done, couldn't it? John Watson was the only person to occupy her head ninety percent of the day, so it couldn't be _that_ hard to do…surely?

She'd do it. That very night, she was going to do it. She just needed to figure out how.

**0**

Sherlock remained on the sofa, leaving Molly to occupy the armchair opposite John. It wasn't exactly an ideal arrangement for the pathologist, as she found it hard to keep her eyes off the former soldier for any length of time. The sofa would have been a far more advantageous spot, from which to observe, as John wouldn't have been in view and there were more than a few occasions when his eyes would travel over to Molly and catch her in the act of observation. Of course, she'd quickly find something fascinating in her fish and chips or on the leg of her pyjama bottoms, keeping her gaze lowered for as long as possible, until it was safe to look up again.

Each time she took in the man's profile, the shape of his nose, the light tapping of his fingers on the arm of the chair or the split seconds when their eyes would meet, one thought would enter her brain.

_Create new memories._

When would be the best time to speak? Molly preferred not to do so in Sherlock's presence, but he seemed pretty much glued to the bloody sofa. Didn't he have anything better to do? Surely his bed would be a far comfier place to lie down and think? The pathologist could feel the agitation growing and anticipation was making her fidgety. She wanted to move around or go for a jog, just to relieve some tension and dispel the nervous energy. Instead, she was stuck, pretending to watch telly, with John so teasingly close, yet unable to bloody speak to him, because his flatmate was lounging only a few feet away.

If asked to recite the programming schedule for BBC2 that night, Molly would have found it impossible. Not a thing stuck in her memory, because it was too busy trying to create the perfect image of the man opposite, to carve it into her brain as a keepsake for whenever he might not be around. She could design and build her own form of Mind Palace and just fill it with snapshots of him. That idea managed to keep her entertained for the rest of the evening, until the angels decided to answer Molly's prayers.

With the speed and grace of cat, Sherlock levered himself upright from the sofa and marched through the flat, towards his bedroom, before the door announced its closure with a loud slam.

"Christ," John muttered. "That man's never elegant."

Molly didn't reply, she was too busy internally screaming. This was it. This was the moment she had been waiting for. Before the pathologist could get too ahead of herself, she planned to allow a short amount of time, ensuring the detective wouldn't suddenly decide to return to the sofa. Unfortunately, that plan was thwarted by the very man she wanted to speak to, when he stood up from the chair and announced his departure to bed.

Molly fully intended to follow suit, by getting out of her seat, calling John's name and telling him everything. The objective was there and she had spent the entire day working out exactly what to say. All she had to do was call his name. Simple. Unfortunately, it never happened, because, by the time she gathered the courage to get her hands into position to lever herself upwards, John had left, his exit announced by heavy footsteps on the stairs.

Each step sounded in rhythm with her heartbeat, until she heard his bedroom door open, then close. There, the moment was gone. She'd had the chance to act and now it was over. A long period of nothingness followed, with the silence interrupted by the low sounds coming from the television. Filled with frustration, Molly bunched her left hand into a fist and thumped the arm of the chair. She was such an idiot, sometimes! How long would she keep this up, cowering away from her feelings like a frightened little mouse, avoiding the clutches of a cat? How long was John going to have to wait for her? How long would he be _willing_ to wait for her?

Panicked by that thought, Molly forced herself into action. Climbing to her feet, she moved, following the path John had just taken. She daren't think about what she was doing, lest the fear take control again and keep her from the thing she wanted most. The staircase leading up to John's room suddenly seemed the size of Mount Everest and she would have sworn that an extra dozen steps were added during her absence that morning, had sense not decreed it impossible.

Finally reaching the top, Molly extended an arm and let her knuckles rap against the closed door. Her heart was beating so hard, she could hear the blood rushing past her ears. She tried to control her breathing, so that she didn't pass out before John answered the door. The wait was agonising, because every inch of her body thrummed with anticipation, yet the man inside the room appeared to have no idea, because he seemed in no rush to answer the knock.

A trickle of doubt worked its way into her resolve. Was this a good idea? What if John just wanted to sleep? It was late, perhaps it would be best to wait until morning. Maybe-

The door handle turned and Molly almost let out a gasp. The door slowly opened, to reveal John and a range of emotions lit up his face, upon the discovery of his visitor.

"Molly?"

Thought ceased and impulse took over. In one swift motion, Molly reached forward, clasping the collar of his red shirt in her hands and pulled him towards her, pressing her lips to his.

_Create new memories._

Molly intended to do so. With her eyes squeezed shut, the pathologist was forced to rely on the rest of her senses, to create an image in her mind's eye. It was hard to know where to begin, as overwhelmed by the moment as she was, by the fact that she was _kissing John Watson_.

She pulled away, but her fingers remained curled around his collar. She'd done it, she'd finally told him how she felt, even if it was with actions, rather than words. For his part, John looked rather shell shocked by the unexpected gesture and his eyes were boring into hers, trying to ascertain the motive. Suddenly, Molly felt that it wasn't enough, because she didn't like the small frown lines creasing his brow. He worried too much and she wanted to take that concern away.

_Swap bad for good._

Rather than pull him to her, she stepped closer into him and initiated a second kiss. This time, now that the initial fear and shock had gone, she was able to register a little of what was happening. The first thing to enter her thoughts was the feel of his lips against hers. They were soft, warm and… _moving_! She could feel them shifting position, moulding to her shape and changing the nature of the act. Molly didn't have the opportunity to understand, because she was distracted by his hands-which had clasped her elbows initially-as they slid up her arms to cradle her face, leaving tingles in their wake. He was so _warm_. She'd never realised that before. His body seemed to run at a temperature far higher than hers. It was inviting and she found herself leaning towards the heat, wanting to banish the cold that had encased her for so long.

Whatever sensations assaulted her other senses, Molly never catalogued, because she was getting lost in the moment. She hadn't expected John's quick response, but that was because her thought process had gone no further than the first kiss. She was charting completely new territory and relying on the man dousing her with affection to lead the way.

He was a willing guide. John's fingers moved into her hair, as he eagerly kissed her back and her grip on his collar grew tighter, as she felt her body burning up. The sensations educed by the moment were steadily building inside Molly, but she didn't know how to react. Replacing bad with good had been the advice and this was better than she had ever expected, but she started to feel overwhelmed and disorientated by it. She'd never experienced anything like it before and the unknown was frightening.

The sensations continued to increase, when something ran along her bottom lip. Her mouth opened automatically and Molly felt John's tongue brush against hers. She let out a gasp, realising how far things had gone and that was when the spell broke.

Their lips separated and John cursed, the words leaving his mouth in breathless exhalations.

"Sorry…sorry…I didn't mean…I'm sorry…"

Besieged and confused by emotion and the feel of his fingers still entwined in her hair, Molly felt the sting of tears in her eyes and buried her face in his neck to weep. The tears weren't those of sorrow, they were simply her way of reacting to the overload of sensation running through her body. It had been _very_ long time since she'd kissed anyone that way and had forgotten how it felt, forgotten the time when being held by a man didn't result in sectioning for mental trauma. It was an enormous amount to comprehend in one go and she knew it would take time for her to understand her body's reactions.

John pulled her in closer, wrapping an arm around her waist, as his hand cradled the back of her head. He continued to offer apologies and Molly would have told him to stop, if she could. She didn't want him to regret this, because he had done nothing wrong. _She_ had initiated contact, _she_ had drawn him in and he simply responded in kind. It wasn't his fault that she couldn't yet handle the consequences.

They stood in the doorway for an unmeasured amount of time, as John waited for calm to settle upon the woman in his arms. His thumb brushed against her hair and he held her tightly, unaware of how thoroughly his very essence had enveloped her. John was everywhere, from the body heat radiating through his clothes, to the sound of his breath, which was gradually steadying, as it stirred the hairs on her neck. Even the faint smell of his aftershave tickled her nose.

Molly started taking in deep breaths and sniffles signalled the end of her weeping. John didn't release his hold, yet, though. He was afraid of what might happen if he did. She shifted position, her arms moving until her hands gripped his shoulders. He panicked, but she didn't show any signs of wishing to create distance between them, which allowed him to relax a little.

"John," Molly said, her voice quiet and quivering.

"Hmm?"

"I'll try," she vowed and he knew she was referring to his proposal the previous night. "It-it might take me a while…and I don't know what I'm doing…" her voice cracked with emotion, causing her to pause. "But, I'll try for you."

If possible, John's grip on Molly grew even tighter.

Never had four words ever meant so much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooooo…thoughts on the first proper kiss?


End file.
